


Now I Have to Mop Again

by Silvarbelle



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, because why not, but mostly movie, from birth, this whole thing is a mix of movie and book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:30:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvarbelle/pseuds/Silvarbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the Eldest.  That means she can't ever get out, see the world, do anything or be anything important.  Or can she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Have to Mop Again

**Author's Note:**

> I have read some VERY good Teen Wolf and Howl's Moving Castle fusions. I wanted to read one that had Stiles as a girl, though, so I wrote it. This is the result. Unbeta'd, as no one had time or inclination.

_Given how much I like to cook, you’d think it’d be **me** in the bakery – not Allison.  Then again, given how much I love to read and research and investigate, you’d think I’d be apprenticed at the library – not Lydia.  But, no, damn it all, I’m the eldest of three with a common denominator parent, so it’s **me** that has to stay put._

 

Mieczysława “Stiles” Stilinski sighed as she stopped sewing accents onto a lady’s hat.  It was a nice hat; not one of their more expensive frippery types, but it was pink and lovely and meant for the head of a lovely lady.  She’d told it as much; she always talked to her projects be they hats or meals or whatever she turned her attention to.  She felt such a lack of encouragement in her own life that she felt the need to bolster everything else or she’d go mad (even if it was just a silly game to entertain herself).

 

Not for the first time did she lament her lot in life.  As the eldest of three sisters with a common father, the magic that ran their world decreed she’d never find her fortune; she’d stay put and everyone else would get the jobs and lovers and life they wanted while she held to duty.  Her father, Aleksander Stilinski, knew she was discontent but he was so grateful she stayed to operate the hat shop that had been in her mother’s family that he never said anything about it.  She knew her father loved her dearly, but his job as the Sheriff of Beacon Hills kept him busy and as long as Stiles was safely employed and had a roof over her head, he wasn’t inclined to muck with the status quo.  Claudia Hatter had been his beloved first wife, tragically lost to a wasting illness when Stiles had been two.  He’d married another woman soon after to give Stiles a mother, but she’d died in a freak carriage accident not long after giving birth to Allison.  His third wife, to give his two daughters a new mother, had provided him with Lydia and then had decided she wanted more than a small-town sheriff for a husband and a small-town life.  She’d run off with the son of a rich businessman from Los Angeles and the divorce papers had arrived a few days later.  After that, her father had decided to just cut his losses and accepted offers from the matronly ladies in town to help raise his daughters.

 

Had any of the Stilinski girls been fathered by someone else, the Curse of Three would have skipped them and Stiles would not be bound to her late mother’s hat shop.  While employment was iffy on that score – she could have easily been relegated to doing grunt work in the Sheriff’s station – but the telling fact was that the eldest received the least in terms of fortune: job, lovers, and looks.  Allison was tall, willowy, with a stunning square jaw and brown cat-eyes that turned her into a regal beauty.  Her skin was pale, flawless, and while she didn’t have much in the way of bosom or hip, she moved with a deer-like grace and had long tresses of black hair that curled elegantly about her face and shoulders when left down.  She was sweet and funny and kind, with cute dimples when she smiled, and intelligent if not always sensible.  She was, frankly, adorable.

 

Then, there was Lydia.  As the youngest, she received the best of it all.  She was petite, but she was lushly round at bosom and hip and thigh, with a tiny waist.  Her thick hair was red-gold; a living flame that went well with her striking green eyes and creamy complexion.  She dressed well, knowing how to flatter her figure and coloring, and she walked as if she had the world in her pocket.  She knew how to dazzle, how to baffle, how to stand her ground.  She was the consummate hostess and brilliant to boot.  She was already courted and practically engaged by Jackson Whittemore, the local esquire’s son, but she still had her fair share of suitors (as did Allison).  She was bound for bigger and brighter things than little Beacon Hills, but she had a plan she was working on to stack decks mostly in her favor.  Staying in town, earning her credit as an apprentice Librarian, was part of it.

 

“And then, there’s me,” Stiles sighed.  Tall, yes; pale, yes; brown-eyed, yes; marks that favored the Stilinski bloodline.  But her hair was a dull and boring brown that only waved and curled if there was sufficient humidity.  Her eyes were boring brown and her face and the rest of her body were dotted with big brown moles.  She was in the middle of curvature between her two sisters; more in bosom and hip and thigh than Allison, but obviously less than Lydia.  She was as intelligent as Lydia, had less common sense than Allison sometimes, and was easily distracted without the help of a daily potion.  She was plain, boring, and eldest.

 

“Someday,” she told the hat as the mid-afternoon train whistled past, masking the sunlight past her workshop windows, “something exciting will happen to me.  A handsome stranger will come along; will see me and think I’m worth taking an interest in.  He won’t compare me to my sisters and find me lacking.  I won’t be stuck in this hat shop for the rest of my life.  Adventure and excitement will happen to me even though I’m the eldest.”

 

Stiles yearned with all of her heart for that lovely dream to be real.

 

The train smog lifted, bringing back the sunlight, and with another sigh, Stiles returned to duty and finished the hat.

 

“You’ll look lovely on some blonde lady’s head,” Stiles said to the hat.  “But then, you’ll look lovely on anyone – and by being on them, you’ll make them just as lovely as you.  Such a charming hat!  So prettily colored, so neatly decorated; how can anyone fail to be pretty and charming along with you?  They can’t; of course they can’t.  I think you should go to some homely young lady like me.  We need all the help we can get, you know.  You’re not for me; you’re far too free to be cooped up with me.  But there’s another girl out there who could use your help.  She’ll find you and with your help, she’ll blossom into a great beauty and finally be happy.”

 

She put the finishing touches on the hat and set it aside on a mannequin head to help it keep its’ shape.

 

Stiles stretched her aching back for a few moments and then turned to the plain hats waiting to be adorned with accents that would turn them from drab to fab.  She was working on simple hats this week.  Anything flashier and more expensive would have to be ordered specially and, lately, all the super-flashy and patriotic hats were being ordered from the big name hat shops in Los Angeles.

 

Stiles considered a purple hat, wondering what she could adorn it with, and then decided to skip it and move on to another pink.

 

And yet, after selecting the hat, Stiles sat slumped at her workbench and stared out the window at the beautiful sunny May day and _yearned_.

 

A knock at the open door caught her attention and she turned on her swivel stool to find Erica Reyes standing there.  The frowsy blonde girl with the shaking sickness that had to be controlled by potion, diet, and stimuli gave her a weary smile.

 

“Hey,” Erica said quietly, “we’re closing up for the day.  We’re all going out for tea.  Put up your work and come with us.”

 

Stiles smiled and shook her head.  “You know how things work around here: if you’ve got a chance to get ahead, take it, or fall behind by three weeks.”

 

“You’ve done enough getting ahead that even if we did fall behind by three weeks, we’d still have two weeks of time ahead.”

 

Stiles grinned.  “Thanks, but I’d still better get this finished.”

 

Erica grimaced.  “Alright, suit yourself.”

 

She turned away and Stiles could hear the shop master, Adrian Harris, chivvying the girls to hurry.  He had been hired on to manage the shop and the salesgirls, having that natural obsequious toadiness that enabled him to flatter and coax reluctant buyers.  He was also a snob, a womanizer, and a generally unpleasant person when a sale wasn’t imminent.   He treated all of the women in the shop like his personal harem – Stiles included, though she’d made it clear from the get-go that if he tried anything with her she’d see him suffer for it.  He _had_ courted her, knowing that if he married her then he’d own the shop outright and the profits would go to him, but Stiles had seen through him.  He’d harassed her badly enough that she’d complained to her father, who’d had a word with him.  Since then, Harris had assigned Stiles the horrible customers with their custom jobs – which were usually atrocious in taste.  He looked down at her, curled his lip, and stared at her in a way that made her think that if he had the opportunity to get her alone without consequences, then she would not fare well with him.  She wanted a lover, but not at _that_ cost.

 

“Let’s _go_ , girls!” he snapped at them, and then stepped into the doorway.  He eyed Stiles’ slender frame in its faded green spinster dress.  Stiles controlled her urge to flinch away and lifted her chin just slightly.  He curled his lip at her.  “I’d suggest you try to stay out of trouble, but since you never go anywhere or do anything, it’d be wasted effort.  A pity you’re such a drab and boring little mouse.”

 

“Didn’t stop you from trying to marry me.”

 

Harris snickered meanly.  “I’d _still_ marry you if either you or your father could be convinced of it.  This shop does very well and I like the money it brings in.  And I can think of a few ways of easing my frustrations after dealing with shoppers all day.”

 

He licked his lips while looking at her and Stiles’ skin crawled.

 

Seeing the gathering storm on her face, he gave her a mocking bow and a smile, and then turned to hurry the girls out of the shop.

 

“Look!” cried one of them suddenly.  “It’s Howl’s castle!”

 

There was an immediate cry of excitement and a stampede toward the windows.  Stiles herself wasn’t immune.  Rumors of the Great Wizard Howl – beautiful, dangerous, a roguish scoundrel and a passionate lover – had tantalized Beacon Hills for months.  Word had it that he came from the east coast, but word also said he was a local boy come home.  Stories conflicted constantly, but the one thing everyone knew was that the giant metal mish-mash hulk that roamed the Preserve and the Wastes around Beacon Hills could walk on legs of its own.  To make that happen required considerable power.

 

All of the rumors added up to adventure and excitement and tantalizing wickedness.  Bored, boring Stiles was drawn like a lodestone to catch a glimpse of the famous castle.

 

There, on the green sheep hills at the edge of the Preserve, the castle lumbered along.  Sheep bleated and scrambled away while their shepherd waved his crook at the castle, no doubt blasting the castle with furious invective.

 

Low-hanging clouds drifted in and the castle went into them just as a flight of personal flier planes approached.

 

“He’s gone,” sighed Erica.

 

“No,” countered one of the other girls, “he’s just hiding in the clouds from those planes.”

 

Stiles returned her attention to the hat and the trimmings in front of her, trying to select the ones that felt right with the particular pink and style she’d chosen.

 

“Did you hear about that girl from the edge of town?  Kate Argent?  They say Howl tore her heart out!” exclaimed a different girl.

 

“I heard it was her throat,” said another.

 

Stiles grimaced.  She remembered the reports of a woman’s mutilated body being found in the burnt remains of the Hale House where a family of wizards had supposedly died in a freak accident.  That was about the same time Howl had shown up.

 

She hoped it was coincidence.

 

“Now I’m too scared to go out!” Erica whined.

 

Stiles couldn’t really blame her.  If the least little thing set off spastic convulsions in her, she’d hardly ever step foot outside, herself.

 

 _You hardly step foot outside **anyway** ,_ she thought meanly to herself. 

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” said one of the girls, her tone sly and nasty, “Howl only preys on _pretty_ girls.”

 

The other girls laughed but Stiles slammed her scissors down on her worktable, knowing full well that Erica would be miserable and hunched in on herself.  Startled squeaks erupted from the snickering ladies.

 

“Time to go, girls,” Harris drawled, disinclined to aid Erica against her tormentors.  “Let’s get going before the mice overrun this shop.”

 

More giggles and twitters erupted as the girls followed their leader out.  As Erica passed by, she and Stiles exchanged grim looks and nods before Erica disappeared and the front door rang shut with a jingle of bells.

 

Stiles sat contemplating the bare hat for several more moments before abruptly deciding that she was _done_ being shut in for the day.  She’d received a note from Allison, asking her to come visit at Mahealani’s Bakery, and suddenly she very much wanted to see her sister.  She’d have to put up with watching men flock around the lovely young lady, ignoring her, but she was used to that and frankly, she could use some sympathy.  She loved her sisters tremendously, but she knew she’d get crumbs of kindness from gentle Allison more than fiery Lydia.

 

Hopping down from her workbench, Stiles dusted her apron off before removing it and tossing it onto the workbench.  Gathering up her own hat – a boring tan straw with a purple band and a cluster of three lilac-colored big beads – she stuffed it on her head and walked out, passing through the courtyard that connected the Hatter family house to the Hatter family hat shop.

 

In the front room of the shop, Stiles stopped to look at herself in the three-way mirror.  She put a big, brilliant smile on her face even as she flirtatiously tweaked her hat, mimicking the motions she’d seen from other girls.  But it was a wasted effort.  She was a little brown wren in a town full of bluebirds.  Coy smiles and flirting looked ridiculous on a plain thing like her.

 

Irritated, she jammed the hat down on her head and stalked out, locking the shop behind her.

 

The sidewalks were jammed with people and the streets crowded with yet more of them as well as trolleys and steam-powered motorcars.  She’d forgotten it was a May Day parade and that Californian soldiers dressed in livery and uniforms were marching in a send-off parade.  They’d been called up in time and so the people of Beacon Hills cheered for their own and for the other regiments passing through in a shower of confetti and ticker tape and vivacious jubilance.

 

Personal flier planes flew overhead with a giant Californian flag stretched between them.  Cavalry rode past, tanks rolled by, and foot soldiers trooped along in units while flowers and favors were tossed to them.  Higher ranking officers promenaded with ladies and gentlemen, congregating in tea shops and restaurants and parlors.

 

Stiles looked at it all uneasily.  Word had not yet come down about _why_ the armies had been called up and people seemed to have forgotten that calling the soldiers meant battles were imminent.  She hated fighting.  She preferred safety and lack of pain; definitely preferred the absence of blood.  Soon enough, if war couldn’t be averted, those shiny uniforms would be tattered and stained, and the lives inside them would be forever changed if not snuffed out entirely.

 

She avoided being run over by motorcars as she made her way to the trolley she needed to get across town.  Plain and drab as she was, none of the men boarding the trolley stepped aside for her.  She barely managed to hop aboard the runner step in time; so unnoticed that the caboose operator signaled the engineer to drive on with a clang of the bell.

 

Hopping aboard, Stiles clung to the handrail with one hand, letting her skirt and petticoat flap around her in the resulting wind while she held her hat to her head with her other hand.  She watched the scenery pass by, squeezing aside with every stop and people getting off, until she reached her own destination and easily hopped off the trolley.  She gave one uneasy glance at the crowded streets and sidewalks, and ducked into the alleys instead.

 

She’d never approached the bakery from this direction before, so she occupied herself with re-reading Allison’s note to get the bakery’s post number while she walked.

 

Right up until she walked into a uniformed soldier.

 

“Hey,” crooned the tall, buff man as she stumbled back, “looks like a little mouse has lost its way.”

 

Stiles blinked.  The red-haired man in front of her was a foot taller than she was, with a muscular build and a smirk on his face that said she’d caught his attention and there was nothing she could do about it.

 

“No,” she denied, even as another soldier – also big and buff, though with a humongous chocolate brown moustache – stepped up to join his friend.  “I’m not lost!”

 

“This little mouse looks thirsty,” continued the first soldier, ignoring her.  “We should take her for a drink or two.”

 

“She’s pretty cute for a mouse,” opined the brunet soldier, bending down to get a better look at Stiles by peering up under the brim of her hat.

 

“Yep – pretty cute,” the red-haired soldier agreed.  “You live around here, Mouse?  How old are you, anyway?”

 

Stiles went cold with apprehension.  A Sheriff’s daughter, she recognized that the young private was sniffing for information about how much he could get away with.  Was she _too_ young?  Was she a local girl; one that would have friends and family clustering around to defend her?

 

Backing up, squaring her shoulders, she snapped, “Leave me alone!”

 

The red-haired man laughed and slapped his fellow soldier on the back.  “See?  Your moustache scares all the girls!”

 

“So?  I think she’s even cuter when she’s _scared_ ,” the mustachioed man shot back, his dark eyes fixed intently on Stiles.

 

All three were silent.  Stiles considered her options: run or fight?  She was poised for flight, but she could see they knew it and were _hoping_ she’d run.

 

Abruptly, a new voice said, “ _There_ you are, sweetheart – I’ve been looking all over for you.  Sorry I’m late.”

 

Stiles tensed as a strong arm curled around her shoulders and a hand glinting with bejeweled rings settled on her right shoulder.  One of the rings was sparkling with a faint glow in the amber jewel.  The voice was cool, faintly sarcastic, and somewhat dangerous.  Turning her head, she saw a strong jaw and a gold earring set with a lapis lazuli stone dangling down; saw pretty lips twisted in a sardonic smirk set in an unfairly beautiful face topped with spiky black hair – all part of the package of the man who was standing strong beside her, facing off against the soldiers.

 

“Hey!  Hey, hey!” snapped the red-haired soldier.  “We’re busy, here!”

 

“Really?” the newest stranger growled.  “It looked to me like the two of you were just leaving.”

 

With a few gestures from the black-haired man, the soldiers were forced to assume marching form and walk away despite their abruptly alarmed protests.

 

“Don’t hold it against them,” the wizard said quietly to Stiles.  “They’re not actually all that bad – just frightened of what’s waiting for them.  Not that it excuses them.”

 

Stiles met the green gaze of the beautiful man who’d come to her rescue.  He was wearing a blousy white shirt and a black coat with purple diamond pattern, trimmed with flashy black beads, hung about strong shoulders, linked by a gold chain strung between the lapels.  A sapphire pendant swung down against his chest.  The wizard was looking at her, amused and appreciative all at once.  The way he looked at her made her feel like she was a deer cornered by wolves and the strangest bit of it all was that she didn’t mind at all.

 

He stretched out a long finger and delicately touched the brown spots scattered along her left cheek for a moment before pulling away.

 

“What fetching little moles,” the wizard murmured.  “Like your own little star map.  Do they go _everywhere?_ ”

 

Stiles felt her heart lurch in her chest and wondered how it was she didn’t care that she was possibly dying even as she wondered how to answer that incredibly impertinent question.

 

Seeing that she wasn’t going to respond, he shook his head with a low chuckle of amusement, giving her a glimpse of adorable bunny teeth.

 

“Where to?” he asked.  “I’ll be your escort this evening.”

 

“I… I… um.”  Stiles coughed, swallowed, and then lifted her chin at the lift of the wizard’s eyebrows.  “I’m going to the bakery.”

 

“Allow me.”  The wizard offered his arm in a gallant gesture.  Stiles, without thinking, accepted it.  “Now, don’t be alarmed, but I’m being followed.  Act natural.”

 

“You… wait, you what?” Stiles squeaked, but by then, the wizard was walking and she had no choice but to walk with him.

 

She held herself stiffly at the wizard’s side while they walked through the back alley paths as if they hadn’t a care in the world.

 

That nonchalance was soon shattered as black, bulbous monsters oozed out of the walls.  As they filled the alleys in overwhelming numbers, Stiles began to breathe harder.

 

“Sorry,” the wizard said, not looking at her at all, “looks like you’re involved.”

 

Stiles made a terrified sound.  “I’d have preferred to not be!”

 

“It’s nice to want things, but we don’t always get what we want.  This way!”

 

The wizard turned them down a side alley.  Stiles shuddered as she heard the viscous sound of the monsters filling the space behind them.  She flinched when more monsters oozed out of the walls ahead of them.

 

“Hang on!” the wizard said, and urged them into a run at the monsters coming toward them.

 

“No!  Wait!” Stiles shouted.

 

The wizard caught one of her hands, wrapped an arm around her ribs, and then—

 

Stiles yelped as she was suddenly flying upward, the wizard at her side.  Below them, the monsters crashed together in a tangled mess of black ooze that couldn’t follow them up.

 

“There now,” the wizard murmured.  “Straighten your legs and start walking.”

 

“H-How ‘bout I j-just p-pee myself in f-fright?” she stammered, forcing her legs to uncurl in jerking movements.  “Already g-got that done!”

 

“Would you just drop your legs already?  I won’t let you fall!”

 

She wrinkled her nose and bared her teeth at him, making a face.

 

“Adorable,” he muttered.  “It’s like being threatened by a fawn.”

 

Embarrassed, Stiles scowled, dropped her legs, and stomped off through the sky with the wizard at her side.

 

A few moments later, Stiles realized: she was _walking across the open air of the city square_.  Hair-raising, spine-tingling delight startled her into spluttering laughter and she heard the wizard’s answering chuckle beside her.  Below them, people in fancy clothes laughed and chatted, absorbed in their happy lives without noticing the man and woman walking above them.

 

“You’re a natural,” the wizard murmured against Stiles’ ear.  “I like that.”

 

Stiles fought back a soft moan of pleasure at the intimacy of the touch and the appreciative warmth in the gorgeous man’s voice.

 

Within a few moments, Stiles was set down on the balcony of the building that housed the bakery.  The wizard stood on the balcony railing, bent toward her, holding her hand.

 

“I’ll do my best to draw them off,” the wizard said, “but wait a bit before you go back outside.”

 

Stiles nodded and smiled, star-struck with the charm and the beauty of an exciting man that had rescued her.  “Okay.”

 

The wizard smiled at her and she felt as if were melting inside from the shining warmth of that grin.  It didn’t frighten her at all.

 

Their hands slid apart and the wizard stepped back onto air with a little bow.  “That’s my girl.”

 

With that, he fell down toward the ground.

 

Stiles yelped and rushed the railing, leaning over to look down – but the wizard was gone.

 

She stepped into the hallway attached to the balcony and remained there for several minutes, replaying the incident in her mind.  Had it really happened?  Had something so fantastic really happened to _her?_   Had a wizard rescued her, flirted with her, taken her to safety – and _flirted with her?_

 

She was jostled out of her reverie when Allison appeared beside her, having run upstairs from her post after having been told of Stiles’ arrival.  Beautiful and delicate, dazzling in her bakery uniform of pink dress and lace to resemble a confection was Allison Stilinski.  She grasped Stiles’ arms, pulled the older girl around to face her, and stared at Stiles as if she were a ghost.

 

“Mieczysława!” Allison snapped, using her sister’s hated first name.

 

“Allison,” Stiles said, still somewhat dazed.

 

“Stiles, what’s going on?” Allison asked, touching her sister’s face.  “Someone said you floated down onto our balcony!”

 

Stiles blinked.  “So that _did_ happen.  I _wasn’t_ dreaming.”

 

A man stepped out of his office a few feet behind Stiles.  He smiled big and bright at the beautiful black-haired woman.  “Allison!  Would you like to use my office?”

 

“I really should be getting back to work,” Allison replied over Stiles’ shoulder.  She waved and smiled.  “Thank you, though!”

 

“Okay!” the man said.  With one last love-struck look at her, he went back into his office.

 

Taking hold of Stiles’ hand, Allison drew her sister down to the bakery and into the stock room.  Settling her with a cup of hot chocolate, Allison coaxed the entire story out of Stiles.

 

“Wow,” she murmured as Stiles finished her tale.  “He _must_ have been a wizard, then!”

 

“But… he was so… so _kind_ to me, Allie,” Stiles murmured.  With the memory of a pretty smile in her mind, Stiles grinned.  “He _rescued_ me.”

 

“Because he was after your heart!” Allison argued.  “You know witches and wizards use hearts for their more powerful spells!  You were lucky, Stiles – if that wizard had been Howl, he’d have _eaten_ it!”

 

“No, he wouldn’t,” Stiles muttered, her tone resentful.  She looked away.  “Howl only does that to beautiful girls.”

 

“Don’t give me that!” Allison snapped, smacking her sister lightly in the head. “You _need_ to be more careful, Stiles!  It’s getting more and more dangerous out there.  Even the Witch of the Waste is back on the prowl!”

 

She glanced at Stiles, certain to find the older girl cringing.  The Witch of the Waste had long since frightened Stiles.  Instead, she found Stiles gazing dreamily into nothing and worried that something had happened to her after all.  She jostled Stiles into looking at her.

 

“Are you even listening to me?” she asked the older girl.

 

“Hmmm?” Stiles said, trying to focus back on her sister.

 

Allison made a disgruntled sound.  Before she could continue, a box was pulled out of the stack behind them and a man with a mop of curly dark brown hair stuck his head through.

 

“Allison!  The chocolate éclairs are done!” the young man said with a huge, affectionate grin.

 

Allison smiled back at him.  “Thank you, Scott!  I’ll be right there.”

 

He winked at her.  Glancing at Stiles, he gave her a sheepish smile and a wave.  Then, Scott pulled back and replaced the box, leaving the Stilinski siblings alone again.  Neither young woman was surprised at the sheepishness.  Scott had, originally, taken an interest in Stiles – until the day he’d come to pick Stiles up for a tea date when Allison happened to be visiting.  He’d gone stock still, wide-eyed, and stared at Allison dumbly.  Then, he’d blurted out an immediate marriage proposal.

 

Stiles had sighed, shooed the two of them out the door for the tea date, and that had been that.  A couple months later, they were still unwed but very much exclusive and Scott had left his job at the local veterinary practice to take a job as a baker at Mahealani’s just to be close to Allison as much as possible.

 

Annoyed, frustrated, Stiles surged to her feet.  Setting the cup and saucer she’d held aside, Stiles settled her hat on her head and went for the stockroom doors to the outside.

 

“I have to get going,” she said to her sister as Allison followed her.  “I only wanted to see for myself that you were doing okay.”

 

“I’m doing fine, Stiles,” Allison insisted.  “I’m _happy_.  I love the bakery and I love… I love… I love Scott.”  She scowled when Stiles did.  “Stiles, you don’t _have_ to be tied to the Curse of Eldest.  You’re strong and smart and you can make anything happen.”

 

“I can’t, Allison,” Stiles argued.  “You know why I can’t.”

 

“I know that you can if you just focus on what you _want_ ,” Allison shot back.  “Don’t ask for permission; make a fortune for yourself that nothing can take away from you!”

 

Abruptly, Stiles was too tired to have this fight again.  It had been the same thing, visit after visit with her sisters.  All they’d talked with her about lately was doing the impossible: stop being the eldest and tied to their fairy tale trope fates.  She turned away.  “I have to go.”

 

Allison caught her up in a tight hug.  Stiles closed her eyes, sighed, and hugged back before letting go and walking away.

 

“It’s _your_ life, Stiles,” Allison called out behind her.  “Do what _you_ want for a change!”

 

“’Bye, Allie.”

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Stiles sighed as she let herself in through the front of the hat shop.  Her mind was a-whirl with thoughts of leaving the life of a hatter behind – but mostly, of the beautiful young wizard that had rescued her and flirted with her.  The wizard had had plenty of time to bespell her, to do her wrong, but instead had treated her with kindness and taken her to safety.  She’d spent the long trolley ride back daydreaming of the wizard finding her again; of taking her into his home and liking her and wanting to keep her because he just couldn’t live without her.

 

“Romantic fool,” she admonished her reflection in the mirror after lighting a lamp.

 

She blinked at the jingle of the shop door; the sound of it closing with a thud.  Turning, she found a woman entering the room.  She was tall and had long, dark brown hair.  Though she was slender, she seemed to fill the room.  She was draped in a cape that covered her from neck to heels to wrists; black silk and trimmed with black fur.  Her wide-brimmed hat matched the cape.  A string of red rubies glimmered around her throat, held by a gold chain so fine and thin it was nearly invisible.

 

“I’m sorry, but the shop’s closed now, ma’am,” Stiles admonished.  She glanced past the woman to the door.  “I could have sworn I locked that when I came in.”

 

The woman advanced.  She had a little smile on her mouth.  “What a tacky little shop.”  She looked to the ranks and rows of hats for sale.  “I’ve never _seen_ such tacky little hats.”  Her focus returned to Stiles.  “Yet, you’re by _far_ the tackiest thing in here.”

 

Furious, hurt, Stiles lifted her chin as he glared at the woman.  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”  She stalked past the woman, her spine stiff-straight, and went to the front door.  She opened it and turned to face her.  “The door is over here, ma’am.  We’re _closed_.”

 

The woman tilted her head, allowing Stiles to see all of her face that had previously been hidden by the wide brim of her black hat.  She looked at Stiles with cool green eyes and lifted an eyebrow.  Stiles wondered why she suddenly felt terrified.

 

“Standing up to the Witch of the Waste?” the woman in black murmured.  “That’s plucky.”

 

The vicious smile that spread across her face frightened Stiles to her soul.

 

“The Witch of the Waste!” she gasped, and turned toward the open door to flee – only to find it filled with goopy monsters like the sort that had attacked in the alley.

 

She turned back at a noise; screamed and curled in on herself as the Witch spread her arms and lifted from the floor.  She flew at Stiles, her expression one of evil glee as she rushed toward the younger woman – and then, _through_ her.

 

Curled in on herself, Stiles heard her say: “The best part of that spell is that you can’t tell anyone about it.  My regards to _Howl_.”

 

The door closed on her wicked laugh.  It was a few more minutes before Stiles could bring herself to uncurl.  Blinking through gummy eyes, she bent to retrieve her fallen hat – and groaned at the horrid, painful grind of her joints.  The stiffness was so bad it yanked at her muscles, inflaming them with pain that provoked a refusal to extend properly.  She managed to scoop her hat off the floor, but gasped when she saw her gnarled old hands.

 

Panicking, she tried to straighten, but her back refused to do so.  She was bent into a curve; every arthritic knob of her spine refused to relent to her wishes.  Frightened, Stiles hobbled over to the three-way mirror to see herself in the reflection.  It was slow going, given how badly her hips ached, which only set off a chain reaction of pain down her thighs to her knees, and then to her ankles and feet.

 

All of that faded to the background when she saw her reflection.  To her horror, an old woman stared back at her through gummy, hazy eyes that wouldn’t clear no matter how much she blinked.  She was fat; wide and three-times the size she’d been only a few minutes ago.  Her nose was twice as large as it should have been.  Her face was a mass of wrinkles and jowly cheeks.  Her previously thick plait of plain brown hanging down her back was now a tiny stub of dull gray hair to match the thin, dull gray hair that covered her skull.  Liver spots scattered across her skin.  She was hunched and wrinkled, hurting from every direction inside and out, her eyesight was horrible and she was short of breath.  Her heart felt strained as it labored in her chest.  Her drab green dress had expanded to fit her new fat body.

 

“That… that’s really me!” she croaked, shifting and turning, and watching the old woman in the glass do the same.  “I’ve… no, I’ve got to stay calm!”

 

She turned and hobbled past the sales counter, heading for the door to the courtyard that would lead to the Hatter family’s home next door.  She paused… and then, went back to the mirror.

 

Seeing the same old woman, Stiles let out a frightened cry and scurried out into the courtyard.

 

“Stay calm, Stiles!  You’ve got to stay calm!  Stay calm…”

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

The next morning, Stiles closed her eyes when she heard Adrian Harris pound on her bedroom door, demanding she come out and work.  She’d heard him arrive at the shop downstairs as she sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped up in a blanket – exhausted from a night of fear and sleeplessness.  She’d thought for sure he’d ignore her once the shop girls told him she was sick, but no… here he was, pounding on her door and calling her name.

 

“Don’t come in here!” she croaked.  “I’ve got a bad cold!  I don’t want you to catch it!”

 

“You sound _ghastly_ ,” Harris replied, disgust in his tone.  “Like some 90-year-old woman!”

 

“I’ll stay in bed all day,” Stiles sulked.  “Just leave me alone.”

 

He was silent for a few moments, and then said, “You really do sound terrible, Stilinski.  Should I fetch a doctor?”

 

That surprised her.  She’d have figured him for not only ignoring her but perhaps even locking her in her room to keep her from spreading the “sickness.”

 

“No,” she said, hoarse and crackly.  “I’ll be fine in a few days, but this is really gross.  Just… keep everyone away from the house for a little while.”

 

“Alright – if you insist,” said Harris, and walked away.  His chivalry extended only so far as he didn’t want to get sick or to deal with a sick person – something Stiles had counted on.

 

Forcing herself to stand up, she grimaced at the horrible knifing pain in her knees and hips and spine.  Straightening up and shrugging off the blanket, her shoulders and elbows chimed in with agony as well.  Curling her hands, she could barely form a half-fist against the swollen soreness of her finger joints.  After a few moments of forcing herself to move, her joints loosened up and she could move a little bit easier. 

 

She made her way over to the mirror over her washbasin and smiled at her wrinkled reflection.

 

“This isn’t so bad,” she told herself.  “You’re still in pretty good shape and your clothes finally suit you.”

 

At the sound of feminine giggles and chattering beginning to emerge from the shop downstairs, Stiles winced as a realization came to her.

 

“But you can’t stay here like this,” she admonished herself.  “Not for long.”

 

She knew what she _had_ to do – she had to leave.  But where would she go?

 

Stiles figured she’d go to the Beacon Hills Inn, run by the Lahey family; she had plenty of savings to stay there for a week outright.  From there, she’d send a letter to Lydia, asking for help.  Lydia had some minor magical ability in being able to locate people, but mostly in being immune to spells.  Still, magical ability plus research skills added up to Lydia at least being able to point Stiles in the right direction.

 

Nodding to herself, Stiles set about gathering up clothing – and then, wondered if any of the clothing was worth taking along when it was sized for a smaller person.   But the Witch’s spell had made her green dress grow along with her, so maybe…?

 

Experimenting, Stiles discovered that she _could_ take a carpetbag of essentials and dresses with her – provided those dresses were the drab ones.  Any of her nicer things (that she very rarely had occasion to wear) refused to expand.  Stiles fumed.  Apparently the Witch of the Waste meant to keep her tacky as well as old and supposedly helpless!

 

With a bag of extra clothing, undergarments, toothbrush and hairbrush, Stiles snuck downstairs as quietly as possible and raided the kitchen for a cloth sack of cheese, bread, and jerky.  She wanted to take some of the cinnamon buns and meats with her, but she needed things that wouldn’t spoil too quickly and were easy enough to chew.  She didn’t know when and how often she’d have to travel, so having her own meals with her would save time and trouble.

 

With that, she tucked an old, darned woolen shawl around her shoulders and set her hat on her head, and was out of the hat shop in only a few minutes.

 

She walked slowly through town – and passed directly by her father, who smiled and tipped his hat to her.

 

 _He didn’t recognize me!_   Stiles didn’t know why that distressed her; but, no, she _did_.  She knew she looked ninety, but surely there should have been some part of her father that could see through the spell to his daughter underneath?

 

 _He’s had no cause to pay close attention to me for years_ , Stiles thought sadly, watching the Sheriff walk away.  _I was safely ensconced in Mom’s hat shop and doing the duty of the eldest.  He knew where I’d be, which freed up his attention for the prettier daughters.  Too, he’s always had a harder time with me.  He loved Mom so much and I’m the only one of his children that she gave him._

 

Sighing, she continued on her way to the Beacon Hills Inn.  With her aching old body, it took her three times as long to get there as it would have normally.  Instead of a twenty minute walk, it took an hour, and by the end of it she was nearly in tears.

 

Seeing her distress, William Lahey at the front desk quickly checked her in for three nights and then called his son, Isaac, to come take her bag (and, ostensibly, her) to her room.  While the higher floors were the better rooms, William had taken pity on Stiles and given her a ground floor room, so she merely had to lean on Isaac’s arm on the way there – not that she minded. Isaac was _gorgeous_ ; a classically angular face with a square jaw and a deeply pink, pouty pair of lips formed the frame of his face.  His eyes were a lovely shade of cerulean blue and his hair, now that she was closer to it, looked more straw-gold than honey-brown.  He was _tall_ ; very tall, and lithe, with obvious whipcord strength.  He was utterly beautiful and Stiles wondered what magic had a hand in making him.

 

It was odd for her.  She and Isaac had gone to school together.  Upon graduation, he’d joined the family business at the Inn and that – besides being the only son and thus ineligible for the draft – was all she knew about him.  He’d kept quietly to himself in school and Stiles (preoccupied with finding a way out of the Eldest curse) hadn’t really paid much attention to him then. 

 

Seeing him now, she regretted that decision: but then, it would have come to naught, anyway.  Isaac, she recalled, had been one of several teenagers infatuated with Lydia.

 

“I’ll get a fire going in your room, Ma’am,” he promised, unlocking the door and handing her the key.  He stepped in and opened the curtains to provide light after setting her carpetbag on the bed, and then went to the fireplace to start a fire.  He smiled at her.  “My Gran had old bones, too, and nothing helped her like a warm fire and woolen herb mitts.”

 

Stiles blinked.  “Mitts?”

 

“Oh, sure; you make crude canvas mitts and pack ‘em with herbs good for joint pain and washed sheep fleece, and then stick ‘em in a pan to warm them in a fire for twenty minutes or so.  Then, you put your hands in ‘em and the heat and wool grease and herbs ease the joint pain.”

 

Stiles almost salivated at the thought.  How had she never known that?  She _loved_ to spin fleece into thread and yarn!

 

 _I’ve never been **old** before,_ she thought grumpily.

 

Seeing the expression on her face, Isaac smiled as he stood up and said, “It won’t take me 30 minutes to make a set for you, Ma’am.”

 

Stiles gave him a sheepish, sweet smile.  “How much, sonny?”

 

“You can call me Isaac, Ma’am, and it’s on the house.  Can’t stand to see people hurting when I can do something about it.”

 

“That’s very kind of you, Isaac,” Stiles agreed.  “You can call me Mrs. Hatter.”

 

Isaac’s eyebrows went up in surprise.  “Like the hat shop?”

 

Stiles smiled.  “Yes; I’m a three-times removed cousin, but there you have it.  Came this way unexpected-like, so it didn’t feel right to just drop in on them, you see.”

 

Isaac nodded.  “I get it.  Is there anything else I can get for you, Ma’am?”

 

“I need to send a few notes out in the post.  Do you have the supplies and can you take them to the post office for me?”

 

“I’ll bring the supplies, but I’ll have to get someone else to run them for you for a couple of dollars if I can’t get free of chores.  Is that okay?”

 

“That’s fine.  And a pot of coffee or tea?  Whatever’s on tap.”

 

“Tea it is, Ma’am.”

 

Isaac touched his fingers to his brow and departed.  Stiles smiled after him indulgently and then indulged herself by sinking into the cozy armchair by the fire with a groan of delight.

 

Inside of an hour, a pot of tea with all the accoutrements as well as an unasked for but highly appreciated plate of simple cookies was brought to her; as was notecard supplies and a small table moved closer for her so she didn’t have to get up.

 

William Lahey wouldn’t let Isaac run loose, so Isaac had to flag down a local kid to run the errand for Stiles.  The kid accepted two dollars and the small stack of addressed envelopes with a wide smile and departed while Stiles took a small nap.

 

When she woke up, the promised mitts had been placed around her hands and the post office receipt sat by the empty plate of cookies.  She was startled at having all this done without being aware of it, but then she registered the slick warmth cuddling her aching hands and the fragrant aroma of herbs, and sighed in blissful contentment.

 

Her contentment was shattered the next day when a reply note was brought to her when dropped off at the Inn.  The notes she’d sent out had been to her father and Allison and Harris, explaining that something had happened that she had to take care of and she’d be gone for as long as it took to fix it, but that she was alright.  The one she’d sent to Lydia had been a plea for help.  The reply she held now was from Lydia and the response was _not_ what Stiles had been expecting.

 

 

_Mieczysława—_

_I am too busy to drop everything and take care of a problem you can’t even give me in full detail.  If you’ve run into magical trouble, then I’m hardly the one to call upon anyway.  You need a witch or a wizard.  Given the implied severity, I suggest you seek out sorcerers of impressive power levels, such as the Witch of the Waste or Wizard Howl._

_Best of luck._

_~Lydia Stilinski_

 

 

Stiles sat slumped in the chair, staring in stupefaction at the crackling fire in the fireplace while the letter dangled from one gnarled hand.  She knew Lydia did not feel particularly close to her, but she’d thought _surely_ that family would be a call-to-arms Lydia wouldn’t be able to ignore.

 

But, then again, Stiles had never been _useful_ to Lydia except when they were younger; when Stiles cooked the family meals and did the laundry and the mending and the sewing; when Stiles cleaned and tidied up, taking Lydia’s share more often than not because of her sister’s busy social life.

 

“I guess not,” Stiles whispered, closing her eyes on tears.

 

But what was she to do now?  She needed _help_.  Who could—?

 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open.  Lydia had suggested going to either the Witch of the Waste (only with a loaded gun, assuredly!) or to _Howl_.

 

She could do that.  After all, Howl only ate the hearts of beautiful girls – and she was no longer a _girl_ and she’d never been beautiful at all.

 

That was it!

 

She’d go to Howl.

 

It wasn’t as if she had anything else left to lose except her life – and that had never been worth much, anyway.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Stiles stayed one more day and night, since she’d paid for it.  While there, she overheard a group of men in the dining room discussing the imminent war.  It seemed the neighboring kingdom, Oregon, was missing their crown princess and thought California had something to do with it.  Such nonsense!  They already had a crown princess of their own; what would they need another for?  Still, she knew it was bad business and was anxious to get back to youth and vigor before getting caught in any crossfire. 

 

She also overheard William Lahey abuse his son; thrown crockery, thrown words, and Isaac’s frightened and pained cries.

 

Stiles left the Inn only moments before the Sheriff, alerted by a note she had sent to him, arrived to take William Lahey into custody.  By law, an anonymous tip would allow the Sheriff access to truth spells and potions, so Stiles didn’t have to stick around as witness or testify.  Satisfied that she’d done what she could to get Isaac out of his horrible predicament, she went down to the stockyards.  She hoped to find a farmer on his way back toward the Preserve.  If she could catch a ride, it would save her time and pain.  From there, she could hike through the Preserve up into the Wastes, where Howl’s castle usually roamed.

 

She made her way across the trestle (just in time to catch a cloud of smoke from the passing train) to the stockyards where the farmers came in for their supplies.  She spoke with a farmer, as politely as she could given how sore she was, and secured a ride in the back of a hay bale-filled wagon out to the edge of the Preserve.

 

As she walked out of the farming community, up into the dense forest, the farmer called out, “You’re crazy if you do this, Grandma!  Nothin’ but witches and wizards out there!”

 

“Thank you,” she called back through clenched teeth, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“She’s going into the Preserve by herself?” she heard from the farmer’s wife.

 

“And from there up to the Wastes.  Says she’s lookin’ for her younger sister.”

 

“Crazy old lady.”

 

Stiles ignored them all and made her way into the Preserve.

 

Three hours later found her high up in the hills with a gorgeous view of the town below through a break in the trees.  She sat in the sun, warmed against the high altitude breeze, and ate cheese and bread.  The jerky was simply too tough against teeth that pressed into aching gums.

 

“I’ll never get there with these legs,” she sighed to herself around a mouthful of food.  “Still, at least my teeth haven’t fallen out yet.”

 

Looking around, she spotted a thick branch poking up out of a nearby bush.  She blinked and then smiled.  “That’d make a nice cane.”

 

Packing away her food, she tied the cloth sack shut and stuffed it into her carpetbag, and then looped that over her arm.  She knew if she dropped it, she’d let it go rather than try to bend and scoop it up again.  Bracing her hands on her legs just above her knees, Stiles took a deep breath.  She _did not_ want to get up, knowing the pain that would result, but she had no choice.

 

Forcing herself up onto her feet, she groaned at the pain that zapped from joint-to-joint and through every old muscle.  Parts of her cracked and creaked; an orchestra of _old_ that she wished she didn’t have to listen to as she lifted herself upright.

 

“There we go,” she muttered, panting a little.  “Did it.”

 

She made her way over to the bushes and looked at the stick.  Closer to it, she realized it was a large and long branch.  Stiles snorted and shook her head a little and took hold of the stick’s base.  She tugged and wrestled with the stick and the bushes jostled in response.  She frowned as she saw how much vegetation jostled.

 

“Hmmm,” she grunted.  “You might be bigger than I was counting on.  But I have to have _help_ , so come on!  Come up out of there!  I might be old and creaky, but you’re not getting the best of this old lady!  I said: _come out of there!_ ”

 

Giving a mighty heave, shoving down on the stick with all his strength, she finally levered the rest of the branch up out of the bushes.

 

She gaped in shock at what she found.

 

Instead of a simple branch, she’d found a scarecrow hastily scrambled together.  Tattered black coattails hung around its wooden cross frame with matching tatty black trousers that flapped loose in the breeze.  Tattered and soiled white gloves formed hands at the ends of the cross-stick.  A battered, patched old top hat sat atop a head made out of a turnip with a carved face on it.

 

“A _scarecrow?_ ” Stiles blustered.  “How in all hells is that going to help _me?_   I need a cane to walk with, not a _scarecrow_ – and a frightfully ugly one at that.”

 

The scarecrow loomed above her and Stiles sighed as she looked up into the carved face of the thing.  She patted the battered creation on a pants leg.

 

“Not that you can help it, I’m sure,” she grumbled.  “It’s just that your head’s a turnip – and I’ve always hated turnips.  I actually like most vegetables, you know, especially for my father since he has such a terrible cholesterol problem and I’d prefer him to live as long as possible.  But, when it comes to turnips, we both get a pass.”

 

Abruptly, the scarecrow twisted to the left, to the right, and then faced forward again.  Startled, blinking, Stiles realized – finally – that the scarecrow had been standing upright all on its own the entire time.

 

“Oh, _screw_ ,” she sighed.  “Of course you’re magical – and I’m a dead woman.”

 

The scarecrow creaked and wobbled, swaying, but the turnip head shook slowly from side-to-side.

 

“No?  Well, then, that’s quite alright,” Stiles stated, relieved.  “I’m on my way to save my life, you see, so to lose it now before I’ve even begun… well, you can see how that might have disimproved my mood even further.”

 

The turnip head bobbed a little in agreement.

 

“Since you’re not a cane I can use to haul my old bones all around these hills, I’m afraid I’ve got no real use for you – haven’t a farm to my name to stick you in, and the hat shop is far behind me.  Good luck in finding a field to perch in.  So long!”

 

With that, Stiles tucked her woolen cape around her and began making her way up the sparse slope of the hill she was attempting to climb.   She’d chosen the shortest path through the Preserve up into the Wastes, but it was also the most arduous.  Still, it meant getting out of the Preserve before sundown, which was hunting time for some of the animals in there – especially the wolves.

 

A couple of hours later found that Stiles had broken through the Preserve and was climbing up into the wasteland hills.  Scud clouds swept over the hills as the sun began setting; the fading golden light insufficient to keep her warm.  With the wet, heavy clouds came a fiercely cold wind that seemed to strike her to her bones.

 

“It’s _too cold_ ,” Stiles groused, climbing higher up the hill.  She glanced over her shoulder.  “And I can _still see the town_ – oh, that’s just _great_.  I’ve barely moved, despite all of this!”

 

Over the sound of her griping, she heard a thumping sound; faint, but rhythmic.  Narrowing her eyes, she looked back down the trail she’d just climbed and realized she was being followed by the turnip-headed scarecrow.

 

“Now, wait just one minute!” she cried, flapping a mottled old hand at the thing.  “Don’t you crowd me!  Just because I helped you – and, yes, you’re welcome – there’s no need to thank me!  There’s a spell on you, obviously, and I’ve had more than enough of witches and spells recently!  So, be off with you!”

 

Turning, Stiles started climbing up the hill again as the clouds rolled over them, heralding dusk as the sun sank into the horizon.  She managed about fifteen feet before she had to pause and get her breath back.

 

When she heard the rhythmic thumping begin again, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Please be kind to me.  Please be kind to me.  Please be kind to me.”

 

When the thumping bounced around to halt in front of her, Stiles opened her eyes – in time for a solid wood cane to drop in front of her.  It was topped by a sleek brass handle carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.

 

“A… a cane!” she crowed, and then coughed against the rattle in her throat.  When she was done, she took hold of the cane; it was a perfect fit for her arthritic hand and rose to the perfect height for her.

 

“This is… ha!  This is perfect!” Stiles sputtered with a smile.  “Precisely what I needed – thank you!”

 

The turnip head bobbed in response.

 

Stiles gave it a coy smile.  “If you’d like to do me one more favor…?  You could bounce off and find me a place to stay.  This old body was never meant to stay out in the cold dark of the Wastes unsheltered.”

 

The scarecrow regarded her for a few moments, and then bounced past her back down the trail.

 

Stiles waved her cane in farewell.  “Ha!  I seem to have gotten the hang of ‘old’ quite well!”

 

With that, she used the cane to dig her way up the hill trail.  It was easier with the cane there to provide balance and leverage, though it did nothing to ease the rotting ache in her bones and joints.  Still, small favors and all that.

 

She climbed onto a plateau in the hill and paused to catch her breath.  A sound caught her attention and, holding her hat to her head, she peered up through the clouds scudding overhead.

 

There, in the last gold light of the setting sun, a massive airship flew overhead.  It was cigar-shaped, tapered at both ends, and gleaming brass-and-copper in the fading light that played over its bristling weapons at the gunports.  Its odd, flexible, flapping propellers fitted in rows along its sides sounded like a swarm of bees as the huge craft slid through the air, ominous and powerful.

 

“A battleship,” Stiles whispered, and glanced at the town far below her.  Certainly, the ship would go over Beacon Hills, but would it unleash mayhem on the town?

 

Would the hat shop be spared?

 

Would Dad and Allison and Scott?

 

“Useless to worry about it,” she grumbled, dropping her gaze to the next bit of trail she had to climb.  “I’d never make it back down there in time anyway and what would I do?  Shake my cane and yell at those darned kids?”

 

She forced herself to climb higher up the trail as the sun finally set and darkness closed in around her.  The wind sheared over the hills and ripped at her, flapping the skirt of her dress tight against her gimpy old legs.  Stiles started shaking and couldn’t stop.

 

“Oh, _hells_ ,” she groaned, pulling the cape tighter around herself.  “I don’t understand why old and cold go hand-in-hand!  I’m fatter than ever, yet the wind seems to blow right through me!”

 

Unable to take another step, she folded down onto the ground with a grunt of pain.  She used the cane to lever herself around so her back was to the wind and curled into a ball within her woolen cape, pulling her hat down low.  It didn’t really help, but maybe if she tried to convince herself... something, anything, as she felt herself begin to get dangerously sleepy out in the cold.

 

A familiar scent caught her attention and she lifted her head.  Sniffing, again and again, she felt relief sweep through her sweet and clean.

 

“A fire,” she whispered.  “Someone has a fire going.  There’s someone nearby.  Maybe I can pay for a night’s stay by cooking a meal for them.”

 

Using the cane, she hauled up onto her feet and started climbing up the trail again.

 

Before she crested the top of the hill, something beat her to it.

 

Gaping, slack-jawed and startled, Stiles froze as Howl’s Castle loomed large and grotesque above her.  The front of it formed a wolf’s face with a blunt snout and a mouth full of sharp teeth.  The body of the castle was filled with rounded turrets and shingled peaks of towers; layer upon layer of rooms and windows, pipes and smoke stacks, and great sheets of metal plates for siding that looked like scales.  The whole thing was propelled along by four spindly looking metal legs ending in three-toed appendages that reminded Stiles of chicken feet, and a “tail” seemed to drop from its hind end in a slightly obscene way.

 

Coming along in the castle’s wake was the scarecrow.

 

“You turnip-head!” Stiles shouted.  “That’s _Howl’s Castle!_   That is _not_ what I meant when I asked for a place to stay!”

 

The scarecrow bounced around, ignoring her.  The castle stopped directly above them and seemed to sag in a way that made Stiles’ heart seize with the fear they were about to be crushed.  The castle seemed almost to sigh as hissing steam escaped from exhaust vents and pipes.

 

“Look at _that_ ,” she spat, grimacing at the stench of the thing.  “They call that a _castle?_ ”

 

The castle, seeming to take exception to her tone, straightened up on its spindly legs and heaved into motion again.

 

“Gah!” Stiles yelped, dodging a giant metal chicken foot.

 

The tail passed them by and, getting a good look at it from the rear, it turned out to be a stoop with a single step, a door, and a lamp over it.

 

The scarecrow went bouncing after the castle, hopping in place beside the stoop in a very obvious _over here_ gesture.

 

Stiles gave the lot of them a wary glance – until a breeze ripped into her, icing her to her bones.

 

“That’s the way in?” she gasped, hurrying back down the trail after the castle.

 

The scarecrow hopped in a way that managed to convey sarcasm.

 

“I’ll have you know… I’m a pretty smart… old cookie!” Stiles snapped in response.  “Forgive me… for not knowing… the ins and outs… of do-it-yourself castles!”

 

She forced herself to run as the castle began picking up speed down the hill.  Every jolting thud of her feet against the ground shocked pain up into her knees and hips that made her want to vomit.  Her breath seared her throat and lungs, her heart pounded, and Stiles wondered if she was actually going to die.

 

“Slow down!” she croaked, even as she reached forward and caught hold of the broken metal railings that anchored the stoop to the house.  “For heaven’s sake!  Make up your mind!  Are you going to let me in or aren’t you?!”

 

The stoop suddenly dropped down and scooped her up onto the step.  Stiles toppled onto the cinderblock platform with a short scream.  As she fell, her shawl unfastened and flew away in the wind.

 

“Damn it!” she shouted, and then coughed violently.

 

The scarecrow hopped away.

 

Groaning, using the railing and the cane, Stiles hauled herself up onto her feet.  She twisted the knob on the door and wonder of wonders, it opened!  She peered into a darkened interior, a set of stairs rising up directly in front of her led her gaze up to a cobwebbed and raftered ceiling, but the _warmth_ that was pouring over her felt delicious.

 

Hearing the thumping of the scarecrow, she turned, and found the thing had come back and brought her woolen cape with him.

 

“My shawl!” she exclaimed, delighted.  She reached out and took it from the scarecrow.  “Thank you!  Well, it’s nice and warm inside, so I’m going in.  I’m sure Howl won’t bother with a stringy old heart like mine.  Are you coming?”

 

The scarecrow twisted its head from side-to-side; _no_.

 

“Alright, then, Turnip-Head,” she said with a smile.  “Thanks for all the help!  Goodnight!”

 

With that, Stiles bustled through the door and slammed it shut behind her.

 

She experienced a moment of disorientation.  The interior of the castle was _still_ ; no movement to be felt whatsoever.  The air was dusty, musty, but _warm_ and silent, and she would have sworn ice was melting off her bones just from being inside as she wrapped her woolen shawl around herself again.

 

Cautiously, she ascended the stone stairs that brought her level with the ground floor of the house – and, really, it could only be called a house, not a castle.  The interior wasn’t big enough or grand enough to be a _castle_.  Books and papers, trash of all kinds, dirty dishes, and other debris covered every surface she could see.  In the small kitchen area to her left, a veritable mountain of dirty dishes was piled up from which emanated a strong odor of rot that curdled Stiles’ stomach.  Dried herbs and vegetables hung from walls and joists; as dusty as the things they hung from.  Cobwebs and spiders galore decorated the rafters and corners of the room whose central focus was the immense fireplace along one wall. 

 

The fireplace was a large, circular stone slab that had been scraped smooth, with an attached hooded chimney that captured the smoke rising from the small fire.  As she approached the simple straight-backed chair perched in front of the fireplace, Stiles could see that the fire was so small because the log it clung to was almost burnt through.  Additionally, the whole thing was nestled into a pile of ash so high it could have made enough soap for the entire Californian Army in one go, with more left over besides, with piles of it having trickled over the edge to form at the stone base of the fireplace.

 

She sighed her pleasure as the heat from the fire melted over her, making her nearly weep with joy as the freezing sensation finally went away.  Peering around, she found logs stacked beside the fireplace a broken wicker basket.  She grunted as she hauled up a couple of logs and tossed them onto the fire, and then settled into the chair, letting her carpetbag drop to the floor.

 

“What a _dump_ ,” she muttered disparagingly, looking around.  “When I hear ‘castle’, this is _not_ what I think of.”

 

She shuddered as she spied two large spiders dropping from their webs, their spindly legs at odds with their bulbous bodies.  Turning her back on them, she sagged into her shawl and chafed her hands atop the head of her cane with a smile.

 

“So, there’s at least one benefit of getting older,” she said to herself, “not much frightens a body anymore.”

 

Her eyes began sinking shut as exhaustion from the day’s events combined with the cozy warmth of the fire rising up over the fresh logs.  She thought she saw a shimmer of blue from the flames that formed a face and she smirked at her own whimsy as her eyes closed.

 

“I don’t envy you, lady – that is one bad curse.”

 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open.  She blinked at the fire; saw the face, blinked again, and stared.

 

“Curses are tough,” the blue-flame face remarked in a strange voice.  It sounded like a blend of two voices: one male, one female, the tones overlapping to cast a rippling echo effect.  “You’re going to have a _very_ hard time getting rid of that one.”

 

Stiles went tense all over, her eyes widening as she blurted out, “The fire spoke!”

 

An amused snort issued from the flames.  “And lo, the fire did spake, and it said unto the old biddy: Let me guess – the curse won’t allow you to talk about it?”

 

Stiles sat up straighter, her interest caught.  She ignored the improbability of a _talking fire_ and her own hurting body to focus on the being before her.

 

“Are you _Howl?_ ” she asked, hopeful.

 

“ _No_ ,” the fire snapped back.  “Do I _sound_ male to you?  I’m an extremely scary and powerful fire demon named Coralcifer!”

 

Stiles smirked and slumped back in the chair.  “ _Coralcifer?_   You’re a _fire demon_ and your name is _Coralcifer?_ ”

 

“Yeah?  What _of_ it?”

 

“It’s just not what I expected, is all.”

 

The fire snorted.  “Oh, so you _expected_ to meet a fire demon?”

 

“Well… no!”

 

“So there!  Besides, names aren’t everything.  So I’m not Howl.  _Howl_ isn’t even Howl.”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Does the name ‘Derek’ sound particularly exotic to you?”

 

Stiles snorted a laugh.  “A little bit, actually.  But… his name is actually _Derek?_ ”

 

“Mm-hmmm.  Still think Coralcifer isn’t good enough?”

 

“I never said it wasn’t good enough!” Stiles protested.  “For a fire demon, it’s quite a lovely name, actually.”

 

“Yeah?  How many of my kind do you know?”

 

“Just you so far – but if you are what you say you are, then you’re certainly strong enough to break this curse.”

 

The fire sneered at Stiles.  “Maybe, maybe not.”

 

“Oh, come on!”

 

“Hey, _stranger_ – you barged into _my_ home, called it a dump, disparaged my name, and now you’re asking for favors?”

 

Stiles winced.  “I see your point.”

 

Coralcifer eyed her for a moment, and then snorted again.  Small arms and hands appeared and she steepled the fingers of those hands in front of her fiery chin.

 

“Here’s how it’ll work, Grandma Grumpus,” she said, ignoring Stiles’ irritated muttering.  “If you can break the spell that’s on me, I can break the spell that’s on you.”

 

“’Can’,” Stiles echoed, giving Coralcifer a wary eye.  “’Can’ is not ‘will’.  If I help you, will you _promise_ you’ll help me?”

 

Coralcifer grimaced.  “I dunno, lady – demons don’t make promises.”

 

Stiles slumped in the chair, an indifferent expression on her face.  “Then, neither do grumpuses.  Go find someone else.”

 

“What?  _No!_   Come on!  You should feel sorry for me!” Coralcifer yelled.  “That spell keeps me trapped here in this castle and Derek treats me like I’m his slave!  It burns me up!”

 

Coralcifer began ranting off a list of all the chores her fire was used for in the castle.  It went on and on, but Stiles – her exhaustion and newly warmed body teaming up together – barely listened as sleep began overtaking her.

 

“That’s rough,” she mumbled.

 

Coralcifer, seeing she was losing her audience, broke off with an irritated grumble.  “Alright, fine!  But yours isn’t the only curse that can’t be spoken of.  Figure out the contract that binds me to Derek and from there, you can break the spell.  After that, I can easily break the spell that’s on you.”

 

Stiles yawned and snuggled into her shawl.  “Yeah, alright – it’s a deal.”

 

With that, she let her eyes close completely.  Within a few seconds, she was snoring.

 

Coralcifer tried several times to wake her up, but failed.  Finally, disgusted, she retreated back into her logs and ash pile.

 

“Boy, some help _you’re_ gonna be,” she griped.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Incessant knocking at a door interrupted a dream in which Stiles couldn’t move; tied down by ribbons and thread that had suddenly come to life and shackled her to her worktable, never to be free of her duties as a hatter.

 

Snorting awake, she was confused by the pain wracking her body.  Forcing her neck to tilt from its laid back position, forcing it to bend, she took stock of herself.  It took a few moments before she remembered _why_ she was seeing the body of an old woman even though she’d already spent a few days as such.  With that memory, realization crashed through her and Stiles sagged in the wooden, straight-backed chair she’d fallen asleep in.  A quick glance at the fireplace revealed a dim glow and smoke rising up; the logs she’d tossed on hours before almost burned away.

 

 _Greedy, like all fires,_ she thought.  _No sense of rationing resources if left unchecked._

 

And what _was_ the blasted fire’s name, anyway?

 

The knocking continued at the door as Stiles tried to straighten up in the chair, her bones and joints cracking painfully.  Every movement – even just staying still! – hurt like the dickens and it damn near drove her mad.  How could she _live_ like this?  How could she _exist_ when every moment was nothing but pain?  Was there any _point_ to continuing on?

 

Well, yes, there was.  This wasn’t her natural state – and if it _would_ be, when she’d come by her old age honestly, Stiles thought she might very well refuse to do it again.  But, still, she was in this stinky hovel for a reason.

 

She was startled by the sound of feet pounding down the stairs that led up above the chimney.  Realizing someone was coming and not up for a fight just yet, Stiles flopped back into the position she’d woken up in; gaped her mouth open, closed her eyes, and snorked out grating snores in an effort to appear asleep.

 

The person running down the stairs galloped into the room and over to Stiles, halting beside her.

 

“Hey!  Who’s this?” said a young man’s voice – or possibly a teenager’s.

 

“San Francisco door!” the fire answered.

 

“How’d she get in here?” the voice asked even as it ran from Stiles’ side.

 

Stiles cracked open her eyes and glanced over her shoulder.  A tall, muscular young man with dark brown skin and a bald pate had gone to a cluttered, filthy table and yanked a long bit of cloth free.  He whirled it around his shoulders, fastening it, and Stiles saw that it was a cloak.  Even as the young man turned, he pulled the hood up to cover his head and dragged his hands down his face.

 

In an instant, the young man was an old man and a fluffy gray beard sprouted from his face and hung down to his waist.

 

The now old man ran to the top of the stairs and, in a deep and gruff voice, said, “Stand by!”

 

The knocking at the door ceased and the disguised youth hopped down the stairs.  He turned a knob on the door and a color wheel wired to the wall rotated from green to blue.  Abruptly, the darkness of early dawn that had shadowed the orange-wedge window above the door flooded with warm, golden sunlight.  The disguised youth opened the door to reveal a portly man in a black suit wearing a sash bearing the California colors of red, white, and green with a grizzly bear on it.

 

“Ah, Mister Mayor,” the youth gruffed in his deep voice; “good day.”

 

“Good morning to you, sirrah!” the Mayor of San Francisco replied.  “Would the Great Wizard Hale be at home?”

 

“I’m afraid my master is out at the moment,” the youth grumbled.  “I speak for him in his absence.”

 

A sealed envelope was handed over to the disguised boy, which Stiles saw as she forced herself upright against the creaking, cracking protests of her bones.  She bit back pained groans and got up onto her feet to put more logs on the fire as she  
listened in shamelessly.

 

“An invitation from His Majesty the King!” the Mayor declared ostentatiously.  “The time for war is upon us!  His Majesty requires that every witch _and_ wizard aid our homeland.  Wizard Hale _must_ report to the palace immediately!  That is all.”

 

The door was shut as the Mayor and his escort strode away, the lock clicking into place.

 

Stiles sighed.  “War.  So messy, so inconvenient.  I can’t believe it’s come to this all over a missing girl.”

 

The disguised youth ascended the steps and gave Stiles a flat stare as he asked in his old-guy voice, “Whaddya think you’re doin’ here, Grandma?”

 

“Why does everyone insist on calling me that?” fussed Stiles.  “I’ve never married!  Anyway!  The – it – she…?”

 

“ _Coralcifer_ ,” the fire supplied in a disgusted tone.

 

“Yes, that – said I could come in.”

 

Coralcifer flared and faced the tall youth.  “I _did not!_   She wandered in from the Wastes all on her own!”

 

Abruptly, the boy’s voice shifted to young again as he echoed, “ _The Wastes?_ ”

 

He cupped his beard in his hands and pushed it up towards his face.  The long strands of hair receded and the hood fell back.

 

Stiles gaped at him.  She’d noted previously that the young man was tall and muscular, but by golly, that simply didn’t do him justice.  He had a gorgeous, sleek face with a square jaw and that silky, chocolate skin.  His mouth was full and his dark eyes looked slumberous and sensual.  Every bit of him implied restrained passion and strength.

 

“You – are _you_ —?  No, you told the Mayor – but _are you_ Howl?” Stiles sputtered.  “Howl is supposed to be absurdly good-looking.”

 

The kid gave her a mean little smirk and went to a huge book on a sideboard.  “No, I’m not Master Howl – but thanks for the compliment, Granny.”

 

Stiles blushed a little and grimaced.

 

“How do we know she isn’t a witch?” the youth challenged Coralcifer.

 

“Boyd!  Come on, now!  Do you really think I’d let a witch in here without Howl’s approval?”  A bell over the door tinkled and Coralcifer sighed.  “San Francisco door again!”

 

Boyd glanced at the door even as he opened the large book, stuck the envelope between pages, and slammed the book closed again.  It was obvious that the missive from the King of California was of not great importance to anyone in the house.

 

“Must be a customer,” Boyd declared, and yanked his disguise back into place, becoming a bearded old man once more.  He went to the stairs.  “Stand by!”

 

He hopped down the stairs, unlocked the door, and pulled it open to reveal a small girl of about ten.  She had curly red hair done up in decorative buns and an apron on over her tidy little blouse and skirt.

 

“Yes, my dear child?” Boyd asked, his voice once again deep and gruff.

 

The girl blushed a little and said, “My mom sent me to pick up a spell.”

 

“Ah, yes – do come in.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Boyd ascended the stairs, the girl trailing him.  As he passed by Stiles, he whispered, “Just keep quiet and don’t cause any trouble, Grandma!”

 

He continued on his way toward the stacks of books and beakers and other things.  The girl stayed at the top of the stairs and _stared_ at Stiles.

 

Stiles ignored her to go to the windows across the room through which flooded golden sunshine.  The word “San Francisco” had finally caught her attention.  The only San Francisco _she_ knew of was a seaport that had, originally, been named Yerba Buena.  Over time, it was named San Francisco in honor of the kidnapped ranchero Vallejo’s wife.  It was a coastal town; a three-day train ride away from Beacon Hills.

 

There was no way they could be in San Francisco.

 

Stumping past the little girl, her cane thumping on the wooden floor, Stiles blinked in surprise to see the ocean glittering blue and bright past rows of unfamiliar townhomes and shops.  Seagulls she could hear faintly through the glass of the dirty, smudged windows were wheeling through the sky over the docks where fishing trawlers had no doubt pulled in to port to unload their cargoes.

 

“It’s not the Wastes,” she muttered, awed.  Even as she said it, her mind was whirling with mathematical and magical probabilities on just how they’d transported several hundred miles in only a single evening.

 

“Excuse me, Granny, but are you a witch, too?”

 

Startled, Stiles turned and found the little girl had moved to get a better view of her.  For an instant, Stiles wanted to snap at the child for her presumption, but the urge left her.  The girl was a little thing and she reminded Stiles of Lydia and Allison when they’d been that age; adorable and tiny.  Too, if she drove the girl away from this place, she’d probably be booted out soon after herself.

 

“That’s right,” she cackled, putting on a show for the little girl.  “I’m the scariest _wiiiiiiitch_ of them all!”

 

The little girl giggled, her brown eyes glinting with amusement, and then turned to face Boyd as he approached her with a small paper bag.

 

“Dust your ship with this powder and the winds will favor it,” he gruffed at the little girl, handing it over.

 

The little girl put a few coins in Boyd’s hand as she said, “Thank you!”

 

With a quick bobbing curtsey to both of them, the girl went back down the stairs and out the door.

 

“Farewell, child!” Boyd called after her.

 

She waved, gave him a dimpled smile, and pulled the door shut behind her.

 

Boyd rounded on Stiles as she came to stand by him.  In his normal voice, he snapped, “Quit telling lies to our customers!”

 

“You’re one to talk!” Stiles snapped back.  “Look at you – wearing a disguise!”

 

“I have to!” Boyd griped.  He shoved the hood back and the old-man guise faded away.  “I’m an apprentice wizard!  I have to practice magic at every moment so I can be as good as Master Howl!”

 

Stiles smirked and said, “Don’t you mean Master _Derek?_ ”

 

Boyd gaped.  “How did you—?  _Coralcifer!_ ”

 

“Don’t even!” the fire yelled back.

 

“But—“

 

The doorbell jingled again, cutting off the budding argument.  Boyd and Stiles turned to look at the door.

 

“It’s the Los Angeles door,” Coralcifer muttered.

 

Boyd put his disguise back on and went down the stairs.  “Stand by!”

 

He turned the knob and Stiles watched the color wheel – its wires leading back to the doorjamb – spin to the color pink.  The sunshine disappeared to a faint gray light.  The door opened to reveal a California officer standing in the doorway, his gold-eageled and high-topped cap tucked under his arm.  A green cape decorated with gold epaulets and tassels covered his red uniform jacket, though his white pants were brightly visible.

 

“Good day,” the officer said to Boyd, “would this be the residence of the great Wizard Wulfric?”

 

“It is,” Boyd agreed, his voice deep again.

 

“I bear an invitation from His Majesty the King.  Please inform Mrs. Wulfric that all witches and wizards are required to report for duty at the palace.”

 

“I will inform him right away,” Boyd promised, taking another sealed envelope and secreting it in his beard.

 

The officer bowed to Boyd – again to Stiles as she came down the stairs – and then spun on his heel.  His cape whirling about him, he strode away to the steam-powered military motorcar waiting for him with a uniformed driver at its wheel.

 

The two drove off, but Stiles didn’t give one good damn about them.  Looming tall and imposing just a few blocks away was the royal palace.  The building just across the street from them was large and ornate with towers and windows and bright paint; a gathering place of some kind, as Stiles watched gaily colored men and women go up and down the steps in a parade of high fashion.  Every tower’s spire was adorned with a California flag and red-white-green bunting draped from the windows.  Personal flier planes buzzed through the skies near the palace, on patrol.

 

“This… the _royal city?_ ” she sputtered.

 

Boyd stepped back in and growled, “Move it, Grandma!  Or you’re gonna lose your nose!”

 

Stiles had barely gotten back through the doorway when the door slammed shut.

 

“Stop wandering around!” Boyd ordered, and hotfooted it back up the stairs.

 

Stiles ignored him as she took hold of the top doorknob and twisted it.  The color wheel spun to green.  Blue, she remembered, meant San Francisco.  They’d started at green, so she expected to find precisely what she did when she opened the door.

 

The Wastes.

 

The castle was standing perfectly still, obviously at rest.  The chill of early morning high up in the hills spilled over Stiles as a breeze rustled her woolen cape and the skirt of her dress.  Stepping out, she found they were packed in by dense fog.  The cool moisture slicked over her skin and thin hair.  Her bones and joints _ached_ at the raw, wet cold, but the smell of the air and countryside was sweet and clean – a direct contrast to the musty, rotten stink inside.

 

Stepping back in, she shut the door and spun the wheel to blue.  Sunshine flooded the windows again and Stiles opened up and went out.  People bustled past or lurked nearby; going about their business, talking, whatever else.  A little boy running past shot her a grin and a wave.  Stiles waved back, but she was more interested in the cobblestone street now before her instead of grass and fog.  The front of the building she stepped out of was a plain thing with a single window set up high amidst faded, peeling yellow paint on the façade.

 

She went back in and shut the door, spinning the knob to red.  Her mind was _whirling_ with math and science, trying to figure out how this multiple portal had been made.

 

“Leave it alone, Grandma!” Boyd snapped, coming to stand at the wall that rose around the stairs.  “I’m getting angry.”

 

“But how does it _work?_ ” Stiles asked, plaintive.

 

“Magic,” he replied.  “ _Duh_.”

 

“’Duh’ for _you_ , maybe, but this is ridiculous!” she shot back.  She turned and climbed the stairs.  “So, Mr. Smarty – since you have all the answers: where does the black color lead to?”

 

“Only Master Howl – _Derek_ – knows that,” Boyd retorted, and walked over to a sideboard piled with foodstuffs.  “I need some breakfast; I’m starved.”

 

He yanked open a scruffy drawer of the – not a sideboard, but a hutch; a cabinet, Stiles could see.  The drawer moved stiffly and made a grinding noise as it slid.  Boyd reached in and drew out a round of bread, and then grabbed a chipped plate of holed cheese that had been sitting out uncovered.  He carried the items over to a table piled high with dishes and books and other clutter and began shoving the mess aside to make room for his food.

 

Horrified by it all, Stiles nevertheless followed the growl of her own stomach over to the hutch.  She found a basket of eggs and lifted up a dented metal dome to reveal a plate of thick back bacon.  None of the food – vegetables, meats, and other things – looked or smelled spoiled, and she figured _magic_ was once again at work.

 

Glancing at the pitiful breakfast Boyd had acquired for himself, Stiles asked, “Don’t you want some bacon and eggs?”

 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Boyd drawled sarcastically, “but we can’t use the fire.  Master Derek isn’t here!”

 

Stiles snorted.  Moving to the wall beside the hutch, she pulled a massive, long-handled cast iron skillet down.  The weight tore and tugged at her aching hands and arms, but she ignored it as she scooped up the basket of eggs and the bacon plate.

 

“You’re in luck, young man,” she said.  “I happen to be an excellent cook.”

 

“It doesn’t matter if you can cook,” Boyd called out.  “Coralcifer only obeys Master Derek!”

 

“That’s right, lady,” Coralcifer agreed, adding a rude noise.  “I’m not taking _any_ orders from _you_.”

 

“Oh, there’s my hat,” Stiles said, ignoring the fire demon as she forced her knees and back to bend.  She scooped her hat up and set it and the cane on the chair.  Then, pulling off the woolen shawl, she rolled up her sleeves (revealing age-spotted, withered arms that made her sick at the sight) and fixed Coralcifer with a stern look.

 

“Alright, Coralcifer,” she growled, “let’s get cooking!”

 

Coralcifer flared up, bright and strong, blasting heat at Stiles as she shouted, “ _I don’t cook!_   I’m a scary and powerful _fire demon_ , remember?!”

 

She lashed a tongue of flame – literally, a _tongue of flame_ – toward Stiles’ face while gibbering growls and snarls intended to be scary but ended up being funny.

 

“How would you like a cold water shower to start your day?” Stiles taunted.  Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, added, “Or maybe I should tell Derek about our bargain?”

 

Coralcifer reared back and planted fiery firsts down where her flames merged with the log she was consuming for fuel.  She narrowed blue-green flame eyes at Stiles.

 

“I see how it is,” the fire demon hissed.  “I _never_ should have let you in here – or made that deal!”

 

“Too late now,” Stiles gloated, and shoved the skillet at Coralcifer’s face.  “What’ll it be: cook or welch on the deal?”

 

Coralcifer protested, pushing against the skillet as it stuffed into what amounted to her mouth.  Her fiery little arms weren’t strong enough, though, and she shrank down into a cooking-sized fire, burning bright blue with fury as the skillet settled atop the logs.

 

“There’s a good fire,” Stiles chortled, and reached for bacon slices.

 

“Here’s _another_ curse for you,” Coralcifer’s voice growled as bacon began sizzling in the hot skillet.  “May all your bacon _burn_.”

 

“Now, that’s just mean,” Stiles commented, using a long-handled wooden spoon that appeared to be clean to stir the bacon in its own grease.

 

“Coralcifer’s doing what she says,” Boyd whispered, awed.

 

“I’d like some coffee, too,” Stiles piped up.  “Do you have a percolator?”

 

“We have a tea kettle,” Boyd answered.  “None of us here drinks coffee.”

 

Stiles sighed.  “It’ll have to do.  Fetch the kettle, Boyd.”

 

“Right!”

 

He hopped up and ran to the mosaic-tile alcove that held the scrubbing sink.  He peered through the collection of crusty, dirty dishes and pots and pans.  For the first time, he felt a little embarrassed about the cruddy state of his home.

 

“The hell are you doing?” Coralcifer yowled.  “Don’t get the _kettle!_   Who’s side are you on, Boyd?!”

 

Boyd ignored her as he continued searching for the kettle.  His foot thonked into a metal something and, looking down, Boyd realized it was the kettle.  He picked up the copper pot and dusted it off, thankful that it wasn’t gross with something gone bad.  He zapped it with a sterilization charm and then began filling it with water from the tap.

 

The ding of the color wheel shifting caught his attention and he turned to see it had shifted to black.

 

Stiles, also aware of this, went still as the door opened and a clearly exhausted man stepped in.  The view behind him was a black, silent void.

 

What startled her more was that she _recognized_ the tall, muscular man that had arrived.

 

Still in the black pants, blousy white shirt, and black jacket with purple diamond pattern was none other than the wizard that had rescued Stiles in the alley only a few days ago.

 

“Master Howl!” Boyd exclaimed, hurrying over to him.  “The King’s messengers were here.  They say you have to report to the palace – as both Hale _and_ Wulfric!”

 

Stiles felt her guts chill with shock and worry.  The outrageously beautiful young wizard that had been so kind to her, had flirted so sweetly, was none other than the notorious Wizard Howl.

 

She’d been in more danger than she’d known that day.

 

Stiles turned her attention back to the bacon, stirring as if this was a perfectly normal thing in Howl’s – Derek’s – life as the wizard approached with a disarmingly casual gait.  Shaking slightly, Stiles was hyper aware of Derek standing beside her, watching the proceedings.

 

“Coralcifer,” Derek drawled, and his voice made Stiles’ breath catch all over again, “you’re being so… _obedient_.”

 

Coralcifer’s face popped up over the rim of the skillet while the rest of her fiery body continued to cradle the pan.  “Not on purpose!  The old biddy bullied me!”

 

Derek’s mouth flattened.  “Not just anybody can do _that_.”  He turned to look at Stiles directly.  “And you are… who?”

 

Stiles tried on a smile despite her anxiety.  She had the feeling that he was furious at the intrusion into his home, no matter how calm his voice was  “Oh!  Um… you can call me… Grandma Stiles?  I’m your new cleaning lady – cook?  Household chores person… housekeeper?  I just started today.”

 

Derek was silent for a few moments, processing the information.  His mouth thinned a little more and his green eyes were ice cold as he stared at her, his nostrils flaring.

 

Then, to her surprise, Derek shouldered her aside while taking hold of the skillet handle.  “Give that to me.”

 

The voice was gruff, brusque, and Stiles realized suddenly that when Boyd donned his old man disguise, he mimicked his master’s voice.  She fought back a snicker as she wondered if Derek knew about it or if it was a hidden joke.

 

Their hands brushed as Derek took the skillet from her.  She noticed that he didn’t flinch when his hand scraped over her gnarled, veined, withered old hand.

 

Holding the skillet out to Stiles without any apparent difficulty at the weight, Derek ordered, “Hand me four more slices of that bacon and eight of those eggs.”

 

Stiles blinked, blinked again, and then laid four fat strips of bacon into the hot pan.  Derek put the skillet back on the fire and then cracked the eggs Stiles handed him one at a time.  He dropped the eggs into the bacon grease to cook and fed the shells to Coralcifer, who happily consumed them.

 

The delicious smell of grease, frying meat, and eggs filled the air as Derek cooked the food with Stiles watching.  A smaller, second fire was coaxed from Coralcifer and the kettle set atop it to heat the water.

 

“Okay, so,” Derek asked, “who hired you to clean?”

 

“Uh – Coralcifer,” Stiles answered.  “Coralcifer did.  She’s disgusted by how filthy and unhygienic it is in here!”

 

“Really: a _fire_ is worried about hygiene.”

 

“I am, yes – yours, at any rate,” Coralcifer mumbled around her egg shells.  “And I _can_ smell, you know.  Do you really not notice the rotten food on the dirty dishes?  The _stench?_   The _maggots?_ ”

 

Stiles blanched.  _Maggots?_   Oh, lord – there’d better be gloves in this place!

 

Derek ignored Coralcifer’s questions and jostled the food in the pan.  By the time she called for Boyd to collect plates and utensils, the kettle had boiled and tea was steeping into chipped and cracked bowls – the only things available to drink from.

 

“So – that’s it?” Coralcifer demanded.  “You’re going to eat while I do all the _work?_ ”

 

“Did you or did you _not_ just have egg shells and firewood?” Stiles demanded.

 

Coralcifer tongue-flamed at her again, growling.

 

“Come have some breakfast, Stiles!” Boyd called out, wiping a plate clean with the elbow of one of his sleeves.  “Take a seat.”

 

Stiles moved to the clear end of the table and settled on a stool.  She had to shove more crap over – and stuff spilled off the other end with a crash.  She winced, but neither Derek nor Boyd showed any sign of upset.  Considering the careless way Boyd had been with things earlier, she figured they were used to such a thing.

 

She settled onto the stool gingerly and brushed away crumbs and dust from her place setting.  She eyed the bowl of tea with disdain, but said nothing.  She needed to eat a substantial meal sooner rather than later and she didn’t want the food taken from her.

 

Derek dished two eggs and a bacon slice onto one plate and then divvied the rest between the other two plates.  He slid Stiles’ meager plate across the table to her using the long-handled wooden spoon.  Once the food was dished up, he went and put the skillet into the ashes of the fireplace to cool down.  Stiles winced at the waste of good bacon grease, but said nothing.  Derek returned, his flashy jacket still draped about his shoulders, and settled onto his own stool.  Taking up the bread Boyd had gathered earlier, he cut slices for his apprentice and Stiles.

 

Boyd took it and then flashed a sunny smile at Stiles as he held up two beat up old spoons and a fork, spreading them apart neatly.

 

“Which one do you want?” he asked her.  “You only get one ‘cause the rest are dirty.”

 

Stiles sighed and took a spoon, rubbing it clean with her hands.  “Got my work cut out for me.”

 

Derek smirked at her and took up his tea bowl.  “Dig in.”

 

“Yeah!” Boyd exclaimed, toasting them both with his tea bowl.  “Man, I can’t remember the last time we had a real breakfast!”

 

With that, he tore into his food, consuming most of the eggs and bacon and all of the bread in less than a minute.  Food splattered all over his face, leaving his skin sticky and yellow with egg yolk even as he sucked food and flavor from his fingers.

 

“Even the manners are a mess in this house,” Stiles grumbled, watching him with mild revulsion.

 

Turning her attention to her breakfast, Stiles scooped up a fried egg with her spoon.

 

“What do you have hidden in your pocket, Stiles?” Derek asked, startling her.

 

The egg slipped off the spoon when Stiles shifted.  She frowned down at it and then glared at Derek.  “I don’t – what?  I don’t have… what?”

 

“There’s something in your left skirt pocket,” Derek said, looking at her intently, “and I believe it’s for me.”

 

“No way!  I don’t have—huh?”  She had patted her pocket and stopped blustering as she felt and heard paper crinkle.  Reaching in, she pulled out a small note in bright red paper that she _knew_ she hadn’t put there.  “What’s this?”

 

Derek reached across the table.  “Give it to me.”

 

She handed it over.  The instant his hand touched the paper, it burst into flames and their hands flinched apart while the smoldering pieces of paper feel to the table and burned marks into the wood.

 

Boyd gasped as he leaned in to look at them.  “Scorch marks!  Derek, can you read them?”

 

“That is ancient sorcery,” Derek explained with a scowl.  “Quite powerful, too.  Not many people I know can do this.”

 

Boyd frowned.  “It’s from the Witch of the Waste, isn’t it?”

 

Derek nodded.  He looked _challenged_ as he leaned toward the marks.  “’You who swallowed a fallen star, O heartless man – your heart shall soon belong to me.’  That can’t be good for the table.”

 

Putting his hand beside the smoldering graffiti, he slowly slid his hand across the scorch marks.  Sizzling sounds filled the air and Stiles grimaced at the smell of cooking meat that only came from burning human flesh.

 

Still, when Derek lifted his hand away, the marks were gone and the table was unmarred, as the marks had never been there.

 

“Whoa!  All gone!” Boyd approved with a grin.

 

“The mark may be gone, but the spell is still there,” Derek muttered, cradling his right hand in his left for a moment and then flexed it.  Stiles blinked to see little flakes of charred skin fall away, but his palm was pure and fine when she saw it a moment later.  “And if we stay here, she’ll track it.  I’ll get that taken care of.  You two: finish eating.”

 

With that, he stood up and grabbed his plate of uneaten food.  He carried it over to Coralcifer and scraped the bacon and eggs into the fire, which she consumed with greedy noises of pleasure.

 

“Coralcifer, move the castle to the west; over to Star Lake,” he ordered, setting the plate on the hearth.  “And while you’re at it, make hot water for my bath.”

 

“Sure, like moving the castle isn’t hard enough!” Coralcifer groused, but she flared higher and hotter.

 

Boyd and Stiles watched Derek climb the stairs up and out of sight, and then Boyd turned to Stiles with a suspicious look.

 

“You’re not working for the Witch of the Waste, are you?” he asked.

 

Stiles bared her teeth on a snarl.  “I would _never_ work for that blasted witch!  She’s the one who—“

 

And with that, her mouth sealed shut.  Her wrinkled old lips pressed tightly together and, no matter how hard she tried to speak, she couldn’t get a word out.

 

Until now, she hadn’t even really _tried_ to tell anyone; afraid of what would happen (that it would be true) that she couldn’t speak of the curse.  Realizing it was true, _hating_ like she’d never hated before, Stiles gave up in a fit of rage.  Powering onto her feet, she slammed her fists down onto the table so hard that an avalanche of things slid off the other end and Boyd barely rescued his own plate while the cheese and bread and kettle went flying.

 

Yelling wordlessly to vent her fury, Stiles braced against the table, her shoulders and chest heaving.  Tears stung her eyes.  Why _her?_   She hadn’t _sought_ Howl – Derek – out!  Derek had come to _her_ ; had chosen to help _her!_   And for that, the Witch struck out at her because she couldn’t reach Derek?  How was that even _fair?_

 

It wasn’t, Stiles realized, and it was part of why the Witch of the Waste was so feared.  For all Howl’s notoriety, nothing of pure evil and wickedness had been attached to his name, unlike the Witch.  For her, there was only the tale of malicious deeds that terrified even the hardiest of soldiers.

 

“If I ever get my hands on that witch,” Stiles snarled, “I’m going to wring her _goddamned_ neck!”

 

Boyd’s eyes widened in fright as he stared at her.

 

Stiles snorted and sat down.  She angrily consumed her food and growled around a mouthful, “Finish your breakfast and then _stand by_ because I’m going to take this place to task!”

 

Meekly, Boyd finished his food – holding his plate and his stool set a few feet away from the table.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

When Stiles said she was going to take the place to task, she _meant_ it.

 

 

She started with cleaning because, quite frankly, there simply wasn’t anything else that _could_ be done until that took place.  Breakfast that morning had seen to using up the very last of the clean cook- and dishware in the whole place.

 

Derek, hearing crashing and banging and furious muttering, came to investigate while wrapped in nothing more than a towel and steaming fresh from a bath.

 

“I’ve had enough of this mess!” Stiles snapped at him, so full of furious emotion that she barely acknowledged the spectacular man mostly naked in front of her.  Not that it’d do her any good at _ninety_ , she figured.  “I realize this is a monumental task, but you _can’t_ live like this!  _We_ can’t live like this!”

 

“I had intended to get some _sleep_ ,” Derek growled, glaring at her angrily.

 

“Fine!  Sleep!  Your apprentice can help me.  He can salvage whatever is absolutely necessary and the rest is _going_ , do you hear me?  At least ninety percent of this is simply trash!”

 

“Calculated that at a glance, did you?” Derek sneered.  “Living so long turned you into an adding machine?”

 

Stiles gave him a withering glower.  “And I simply can’t be _intelligent_ , can I?  Smart enough to know it’s time to clean house!”

 

He bared strong, white teeth at her in a wordless snarl before turning on his heel and stomping away.  “Boyd!  You know what to keep safe.  Otherwise, do whatever the _cleaning lady_ tells you to do!”

 

Stiles maybe went a little breathless at the sight of Derek’s muscular back and the tattoo of a triskele settled between his shoulder-blades.  She didn’t get to enjoy it long as he went stomping back upstairs, the sound echoing through the house before a door slammed quite loudly.

 

She snorted, and then tied her skirt and petticoat into pantaloons up around her creaky old knees.  She fixed Boyd with a glare and snapped, “Cleaning tools: mop, broom and dustpan, rags, solution, _gloves_.  I need all of those things.  Damned if I’m touching _maggots_ bare-handed!”

 

Boyd winced.  “I, uh… I don’t know if we have those?”

 

She heaved a disgusted sigh.  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

 

“Because those two bachelors are living in squalor,” Coralcifer sneered from her hearth.  “Boyd, the handled tools are in the little cubby door under the stairs, including a mop bucket.  There are several old shirts lying around in the crap that can be turned into rags.  Sterilize the cast iron pot up there—“ A limb of fire pointed up and to Coralcifer’s right to an immense three-legged pot hooked the chimney; “—and then fill it with water and I’ll heat it.  The solution spell is on page 45 in the sixth book from the left on the fifth row in the bookcase in the alcove.  You can go purchase her a pair of work gloves and a pile of burn bags down the street at the corner store after you put the pot on the hearth.”

 

Boyd sighed and got to work.

 

It wasn’t until he left the castle that Coralcifer met Stiles’ gaze and said, “I really _am_ glad you’re doing this.  I’ve been horrified at watching them live like this and I’m _just_ a bonded fire demon, apparently – what right do I have to demand they tidy up?”

 

Stiles snorted.  “I’m not even going to demand – I’m just gonna do it.”

 

“I’d give you a high five, but you’re gonna need those hands.”

 

“All day long.”

 

Boyd returned and, once the water had boiled, he found the book with the spell and made up a big batch of cleaning solution that was then pulled to one side of the hearth to cool and set.

 

Having donned the work gloves Boyd had purchased for her, and kerchiefs over her hair and face to protect herself, Stiles grabbed a broom and swept the thicker cobwebs and slum-tails from the ceiling so she wouldn’t have to mop and sweep the floor again later.  She turned to Boyd the task of sorting through _everything_ and deciding what stayed and what went.  Whatever stayed would be cleaned by Stiles, but she needed it sorted immediately.  Boyd decided to haul things outside and set protective charms on them against thievery.  Windows were opened to air the place out; dust and curses escaping as Stiles worked.

 

On one trip outside with the huge book he’d placed the King’s missives in, Boyd (in disguise) was accosted by an elderly gentleman asking for a pre-ordered potion.

 

“Come back later,” Boyd advised.  “There’s a witch on a rampage in there.”

 

“ _I heard that!_ ” Stiles’ voice bellowed through the window.

 

Boyd winced a sheepish grin and scurried back inside.  Stiles had him create and fill an enormous trough with dirty dishes and then water to let them soak.  He then stoppered the sink and let the rest of the dishes that could fit soak in there.

 

“But _why?_ ” Boyd asked, grossed out after having destroyed a colony of maggots.

 

“Because everything is _caked on_ – all the old food is dried and crusted and clinging to the crockery,” Stiles growled as she used the push-broom to shove piles of trash across the floor.  The trash would be shoveled into the burn bags; rough burlap sacks that would be tossed, trash and all, into the local dump pit for burning.  “Do you really think my arthritic old bones want to spend hours chipping and scrubbing at things that don’t want to come off?  Loosen it up with a good soak and I’ll be able to cuff the dishes out lickety-split.”

 

Boyd winced, sheepish.  “Yeah, okay; I get it, Stiles.”

 

“Don’t you know any cleaning spells?” Stiles groused as she worked.  “Anything that will get the majority of this?”

 

Boyd shook his head.  “Only sterilization charms like you’ve seen so far.  I use ‘em on the dishes I choose to eat from and the toilet.  Besides, you learn to not get lazy around magic in a hurry.”

 

Stiles nodded, sighed, and went back to work.

 

She worked all day, her energy fueled by her ire and frustration.  She used brooms and a garden hoe to rake the piles of clutter across the floor and sorted out the mess with Boyd’s help.  Books and other items were piled outside.  Fabrics were sorted into baskets for washing or for turning into rags (most of the shirts and trousers turned into rags).

 

“We generally just run out and buy new when we run out of clean clothes,” Boyd confessed, and flinched at the _look_ Stiles gave him.  “I’ll… ah… I’ll get these going into rags for you.”

 

“Nothing with buttons or toggles – or just throw the plackets into the burn bags and save the fabric.  If it’s heavily appliqued, toss the whole damn thing.  Adornments don’t clean well.”

 

Boyd nodded and got to work while Stiles turned her attention back to the crap piles.  Anything that was meant to be for cooking or consuming from went over to the kitchen area for later scrubbing.  Boyd had to go get ten more burn bags and all of them were filled up and set outside for collection.  After that, Stiles simply shoveled the remaining garbage into pails that were then dumped into a pile on the hearth.  Coralcifer complained about the garbage but burned it all up in a flash, though she muttered fussily about the stench.

 

Throughout the next five days, the grime receded and the dust disappeared.  While Stiles rarely saw Derek while she worked, whenever she did, he’d simply look at the progress of the main room being cleaned and grunt before going on his way. 

 

The ceiling and walls were dusted down, dishes and laundry were taken care of, and floors and windows scrubbed until they sparkled.  Stiles, to ease her muscles and joints with different motion, scrubbed and rinsed the waiting crockery and cookware, which were then set in a drying rack in front of an open window, hung from a metal drying rack over the sink, or set outside to dry with more protection charms.  Once most of the dishes were done, and laundry had been set in a wash tub down in the basement to soak, Stiles turned her attention to soaking the wooden floorboards with the all-purpose solution Boyd had cooked up and scrubbing like mad with a stiff bristled push broom.  Another wash with water and a series of rags, and the floor was free of grime and grit.

 

Copper pots and pans, cast iron and steel, glass and wood gleamed with cleanliness.  The odor of rotten food and dust vanished and cupboards filled up again with dishes and utensils, pots and pans.  Glass bottles of varying jewel tones and colors gleamed in the light of flame lamps and whatever sunlight that streamed in through windows now so clean the glass _sparkled_.  The windows were small and few, but with them clean, the place seemed less dismal.

 

“We figured if we kept the windows dirty and the light low, we wouldn’t really have to pay attention to the mess,” Boyd confessed on a sigh.

 

“Damn it, Boyd!” Stiles rasped, her throat sore and strained with dust and invective.  “There’s no need to live like this!”

 

“I know, Stiles,” he soothed, patting the air, “I know.  We’ll do better from now on.”

 

“Good, because if you think I’m going to go through a cleaning haul like this again on a regular basis, you’re out of your mind!”

 

He gave her an odd look before going to sort and shelve cleaned books.  It took Stiles a few moments to realize she’d spoken as if she expected to spend the rest of her life in Howl’s Castle.

 

“Or maybe _I’m_ the one going out of my mind,” she muttered, and thumped downstairs to attend to laundry.

 

The weather up in the Wastes had been miserable for days, according to Coralcifer, which prevented hanging clothes out to dry in fresh air and sunshine.  So, once Stiles had gotten a batch of laundry done every few hours on the wringer washtub, Boyd had come downstairs to zap them dry with a spell.  After that, she’d fold and lay the clothes into cleaned and sterilized baskets to keep the clothes tidy.  Every so often, pieces would disappear, but after a couple of days, Boyd had gotten the hint and gathered up the dirtied clothes and brought them downstairs for washing.

 

Eventually, most of the downstairs was clean; waiting only on furniture to be polished and the ashes swept out.

 

Coralcifer, however, was a little too frantic to take notice.  In her grate in the hearth, she was down to a small nub of firewood that was quickly turning to charcoal.  Stiles had been so busy with cleaning – and kept Boyd busy as well – that they’d fed Coralcifer when they had to.  Since mid-morning of the fifth day, however, neither of them had given her firewood at all (at Stiles’ order).

 

“Stiles!” Coralcifer yowled as the old woman finally approached her with a huge canvas cloth.  “Stiles!  Stiles, I’m going _out!_   Please, please, more firewood!  Help m—wait, what are you doing?!”

 

A small cast iron pot with three legs at the base was set on the hearth.  Stiles reached into the ashes with iron tongs to take hold of the little scrap of wood that Coralcifer was clinging to.

 

“Hey!  No!” Coralcifer shouted as the wood was lifted up, drawing her out of the ashes.  A strange, heavy lump formed the core of her body.  “Crazy lady with tongs!”

 

Stiles set the wood across the top of the pot.  The heavy sack of Coralcifer’s core drooped down into the pot.  “Stop whining!  You’re alright.  I’m just sweeping out the ashes.”

“No, I’m _not_ alright!” Coralcifer shrieked.  “You’re not me!  You don’t get to determine if I’m alright or not!”

 

Stiles ignored her and pulled an iron scraper from the chimney wall.  She began scraping the three-foot high mound of ashes out of the big, open hearth and onto the canvas cloth on the floor.  It took several minutes, but finally, the majority of the ash was clear.  Stiles would have to sweep up the faint residue that had escaped, but that was alright.  She gathered up the canvas and took the ashes outside for people to harvest for their own uses.

 

Behind her, Coralcifer was cut off in mid-diatribe as the wood she’d been clinging to crumbled to pieces.  Dropping into the bottom of the pot, she puffed into unconsciousness.

 

When Stiles came back up the stairs from outside, she paused with a small gasp to see Derek standing in front of the fireplace, coaxing bright orange flame from the two new logs set into the iron grate.  The ash residue was gone.

 

As the flames grew higher, following the rise of Derek’s hand, he turned his head and flashed a charming, sarcastic smile at Stiles that made her want to pee herself in fright.

 

“I’d appreciate it,” Derek murmured, “if you didn’t torment my fire demon.”

 

Today’s outfit was purple and black: a deep lilac, high-collared blousy shirt tucked into black pants that led down to black boots.  The black, purple-diamond patterned jacket was hooked over his shoulders again.  Sapphires dripped from his earlobes, the jewels sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the open door, and from the pendant hanging against his chest.  His black hair spiked up and gleamed with health and whatever product he’d applied.

 

“I wasn’t _tormenting_ her!” Stiles protested as Boyd came inside, having gone outside to gather dishes set outside to dry.  “I was doing my _job_.”

 

Derek snorted, and then looked around.  He blinked, doing a double-take.  “This… wow.”

 

Stiles gave a shy, pleased little smile.

 

That smile vanished in an instant when he gave her a disdainful look and asked, “This is it?  In five days, you’ve only managed this much?  Is the old age slowing you down so much that _that’s_ why the upstairs is still filthy?”

 

Stiles narrowed her eyes at him and set her shoulders.  They could all hear her joints creak and crack.

 

“Why, yes, Derek,” she said with simpering, false politesse, “now that you mention it, old age _is_ slowing me down.  I’m not as young as I used to be.  But, as it so happens, it took five days to clear this entire room of dust, dead animals, bugs, dirty dishes and cookware, do laundry, and dislodge months of accumulated mud and dirt that was allowed to build up to a degree where, frankly, the whole place should have been burned down and started anew.  Now, Boyd only knows basic sanitization spells, but what about you?  The _Great Wizard Howl?_   Surely you know something more than _basic_.”

 

Derek crossed his arms over his chest.  “ _Yes_ , Stiles, I know more than _basic_ spells.  But remember what you just called me: _Great Wizard?_   I’m busier than you know to worry about _cleaning spells!_ ”

 

“For _ten years?_ ” she countered.  “Some of the newspapers I unearthed went back that far!”

 

“She’s got you there,” Coralcifer sniped.  “It’s almost like you’re frozen in time or something.”

 

She shrank back into her logs at the furious glare Derek gave her.  Derek then turned and gave Stiles a furious look of her own.

 

“If I make you a rheumatic potion to ease the symptoms of your arthritis, would you _please_ get the upstairs cleaned today?” he asked snidely.  “At the very least, get the bathroom.  You don’t have access to my room, but I’m sure Boyd will want his done.  Is that a deal: a potion in exchange for cleaning?  Since room and board doesn’t seem to be enough.”

 

Stiles pointed to the straight-backed chair she’d been napping in since her arrival.

 

“That ‘room’, you mean?” she asked, her tone sugary with faux-sweetness.  “As for board: did you know Boyd has had to fetch our meals from the food stalls in the market every day so far since I’ve had _nothing_ to work with here?”

 

Derek blinked, startled.

 

“But, yes, that’d be fine,” Stiles agreed.  “Most gracious of you, your wizardliness, to offer me surcease from the near-crippling agony of age-worn joints.  Certainly, I’ve managed to clean the room your customers see when they come to you, but it would be nice to finish my job _without_ crying myself to sleep.”

 

Derek went a little pale and his immense, furry eyebrows with weirdly pointed tufts at the inner tips crashed together in a fierce scowl.  He nodded and said, “Fine.  I’ll see to it when I get back.”

 

With that, he walked past Boyd and Stiles, who stepped aside.

 

Boyd asked, “Master D—Howl, are you going out now?”

 

Derek didn’t answer the question verbally.  He simply shut the door and flipped the color wheel away from San Francisco blue to the black wedge.  When he opened the door, a strong wind smelling of sulfur blasted through the house.  The pure black void was lit by the glow of fire.

 

“Boyd, make sure the _cleaning lady_ doesn’t get carried away while I’m gone,” Derek snarked.

 

With that, he stepped through the door and flew away into the darkness. The door slammed shut behind him and the color wheel spun back to San Francisco blue.

 

Boyd let out a low whistle.  “Wow… I haven’t seen him that angry in a long time.”

 

Stiles snorted.  “What’s _he_ got to be angry about?”

 

“He doesn’t like people he doesn’t know being in his territory anyway,” Boyd explained, “but he hasn’t had time to get to know you with whatever mission he’s on lately.  Then, you basically told him he was a low-class, abusive wizard.  He needs you around for some reason or else he’d probably have fed you to Coralcifer.”

 

“Ha!  It’s _me_ he did it to!” Coralcifer shouted, and they turned toward the fire.  Coralcifer glared at Stiles.  “You almost smothered me!  If I die, Derek dies _too_ , I’ll have you know!”

 

Embarrassed and irritated, Stiles grabbed up a broom, a pail, and rags.  As she stomped past the fireplace, she snarled, “Oh, get over it!  You’re alright, you big sissy!  Now, stop bothering me.  I’ve got a job to do!”

 

Coralcifer shrank back to hide behind the thick logs in her grate.  She peered over the wood as Stiles stomped towards the stairs and watched Boyd run over to vault the railing, landing on the fourth step up and spreading himself out to bar Stiles’ way.

 

“Wait, you can’t come up here!” he blurted, his eyes frantic.

 

Stiles gave the young man a knowing smirk.  “Whatever it is you don’t want me to see, better hide it now.”

 

Boyd let out a squeak of shock.  His dark brown skin darkened even further with a blush.  He glanced over his shoulder and then said, “Save my room for last, okay?”

 

He bolted up the stairs and disappeared after rounding a corner onto another flight of stairs.

 

Stiles snorted.  “Why I’m supposed to clean _his_ room, I don’t know.  Old enough to do it himself.”

 

“You’re the _cleaning lady_ ,” Coralcifer sniped.  “Kinda goes with the job description.”

 

She shrank down again at the _look_ Stiles gave her.

 

Stiles began climbing the stairs and noticed, as she did so, that she didn’t ache nearly as badly as she had that morning.  “Hmph!  These little outbursts seem to be doing me some good.”

 

She made her way up to the second floor where she found a mess just as bad as the main room below had been.  Cobwebs and dust piles littered the floor, and still more dust and webs and spiders adhered to the ceiling and walls.  Piles of brick-a-brack filled corners, sitting atop locked chests and small tables.

 

Stiles groaned and covered her face with a hand. 

 

“I suppose this is what I get for thinking being a hatter wasn’t good enough,” she muttered crossly, and got to work.

 

She swept and scrubbed the stairs and walls, and the second-floor landing.  She used rags to swipe clean the things in the hallway, piling them neatly.  Anything that needed washing was left by the stairs for later retrieval.

 

Sensing heat and moisture coming from a door, Stiles opened it – and then, reeled back at the clash of odors that emerged in a puff of steam.  Clamping a kerchief over her mouth and nose, her eyes watering, Stiles peered into the bathroom.  The tub was full of dirty bath water and marred with a series of colored splashes dried onto the enamel.  Actually, the entire bathroom was covered by those colored splashes: walls, tub, sink, mirror, windows… even the toilet, which Stiles was horrified to find that Derek had used for doing _all_ of his necessary business and then either forgotten or refused to flush.

 

“Whoever heard of a wizard _pig?_ ” she groused, shuddering as she closed the toilet lid and flushed the waste away.

 

Gagging at the smell of potions and human waste all mixed together, she went to the dirty windows and knocked them open to let steam and stench escape.  Once she could breathe again, she got to work.

 

Two hours later, the bathroom was _sparkling_ it was so clean.  The floor – covered with old magazines and potion bottles and linens – was discovered to be a lovely blue color, patterned with silver moons.  The cabinet that had held crusty potion bottles was green with pink flowers painted on, and the plain shelves that held yet more potion bottles were now clean and clear.  The potion bottles themselves were cleaned up and glimmered in an array of colors.  The toilet and tub, especially, had received a hell of a scouring and Boyd had been called in to zap them with a sanitizing spell.  The pipe in the tub that led up to the rainfall shower head had been scraped free of lime build-up; scrubbed and polished to gleam copper in the daylight coming through the windows.  Getting the walls free of potion splashes had exhausted Stiles, quite frankly.  She staggered over to the open window for a few gulps of fresh air.

 

After a few moments, Stiles realized she felt a dizzying sense of motion and wondered if she was having a stroke.  She opened her eyes in alarm and let out a shout of surprise when she realized she was seeing countryside passing by.  This was real time; the reality of a walking castle that was hiking over hills and dales per Derek’s order to send the castle to Star Lake.  Green grass, gray rocks, clear water and sunlight – all of it passed by Stiles’ amazed eyes as the castle creaked and clacked in motion.  It wasn’t until the castle took a walk along the edge of a sheer-drop cliff that she freaked out.  The sight of a valley floor several hundred yards below her turned her knees to jelly and she slid back into the bathroom with a moan.

 

Still, within moments, she was drawn back to the view (pleased to find they’d left the cliff behind for a safer path).  She watched the castle work, the smooth placing of the chicken-feet legs that kept the gait from knocking the castle off balance, and grinned.

 

“Incredible!” she crowed, and pulled back from the window.  She hustled toward the stairs.  “Coralcifer!  _Coralcifer!_ ”

 

“ _What?_ ” snapped the fire demon from a new, though smaller, pile of ash and half-eaten firewood.

 

Stiles peered down at the fire.  “Are you really the one moving the castle?!”

 

Coralcifer sneered at her.  “Of course I am!  Not like anybody around here does any real work!”

 

“How do you like your clean hearth?” Stiles shot back with a grin.

 

Coralcifer’s sneer melted into a small smile.  “Okay, yeah – except for you.”

 

“Whatever.  I just wanted to tell you that I am _thoroughly_ impressed!  You’re a first-class fire demon, Coralcifer!  I like your spark!”

 

With a cheeky grin and a wink, Stiles hurried back upstairs.  She had more of this place to explore and she’d seen a balcony higher up when she’d been hanging out the bathroom window.

 

From below, she heard Coralcifer bellow “She likes my _spark!_ ” and suddenly, the smokestacks were venting steam and fire sparks as the castle picked up speed, skittering over the hills.

 

Up on the third floor, Boyd let out a yelp of “Not ready, not ready!” when Stiles ascended the landing.  He kicked his door shut and didn’t see as Stiles – sprier, trimmer, with a little bit more hair – yanked the balcony door open and stumbled out to take hold of the railing.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Stiles breathed out, truly awed.

 

She inhaled, exhaled; again and again, drawing in the sweet, clean, cold air of the high ground the castle had climbed to.  Snow-capped mountain ranges that formed the border between California and Oregon were nestled opposite a deep, blue lake.  Clouds and fog scuttled in front of the mountains, creating a visual divide, while the castle picked its way down a slope of lush green grass, streams, and pine trees.  Animals fled from the castle, squealing in fear, and sun glinted off of creek water in a brilliant sparkle.

 

Boyd joined Stiles a few moments later, grinning at the stunned look of pleasure and amazement on the old woman’s face.

 

“It’s _beautiful_ ,” Stiles murmured, wide-eyed and smiling. 

 

“Yeah,” Boyd agreed, smiling as well.  “I know what you mean.  This place, it’s called Star Lake.  I think it’s because at night, if the weather’s clear, the lake looks like it’s full of stars.”

 

Stiles opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted as a rhythmic tapping against the metal railing caught their attention.

 

“Hey,” said Boyd, “what’s this doing here?”

 

“Oh, dear,” Stiles sighed.  She reached past him to get a good grip on the thing.  “Give me a hand, Boyd.”

 

Working together, they pulled the rest of the stick’s mass up out of a vent and propped it upright against the railing.

 

“A scarecrow?” Boyd laughed. 

 

“Yep,” Stiles agreed. “I’ve been calling him Turnip-Head.  Somehow, the poor guy always manages to get stuck upside-down.  Hello, Turnip-Head!  How’s tricks?”

 

The scarecrow remained still for a few moments.  Then, he suddenly leaped away, provoking a startled bleat from Boyd.  Turnip-Head bounced over a couple of metal protrusions and took up a spot well away from any vents.  He bounced in place and twirled around.

 

Stiles waved at the scarecrow.  “Yes, yes – you’re welcome again.”

 

“Done this before, have you?” Boyd teased, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“Mmmm.  He keeps following me everywhere.  Seems to have taken a liking to me,” Stiles murmured.

 

“To _you?_ ” Boyd laughed, and winced a sheepish smile at the hurt glare Stiles gave him.  “Sorry.”

 

She snorted and turned her gaze back to Turnip-Head.

 

“Still, it’s kinda weird,” Boyd said, scratching at his bald head.  “Are you sure you’re not a witch, Stiles?”

 

“You’ve found me out, Boyd,” Stiles replied, her tone bone dry.  “I’m the most wicked, worst kind of witch there ever was – the kind that _cleans_.”

 

Boyd threw back his head and _laughed_.

 

They went back inside as the castle settled onto a grassy lawn that sloped gently toward the lake.  The castle put its belly to the ground and relaxed with steam hissing out of various pipes and vents, its smokestacks and pulley cranes toppling over to a restful position while the chicken legs folded up and propped the whole mess upright by bracing against the ground.

 

Since the day was bright and sunny, with a strong fresh breeze, Stiles decided it was time to do a load or three of laundry.  She spent a couple of hours using the wringer washing machine to clean a few piles of clothing and then Boyd helped her carry the enormous tub of cleaned linens outside, where Turnip-Head waited, hopping in place.

 

With Turnip-Head’s agreement, they tied a laundry rope around his left “wrist” and he went hopping away; further and further with every shirt or sheet or towel that was added to the line while Boyd held the other and of the line, feeding out rope as necessary.

 

He had to dig in his heels and hold, grunting as he snapped, “Stop pulling so hard, Turnip-Head!”

 

Just to be contrary, Turnip-Head _bounced_ and Boyd landed flat on his face in the grass with a splat.  He gave snickering Stiles a glare, but got back up and braced himself a bit better.

 

Close to an hour passed before two lines of drying laundry were hung up clean as a whistle in the cool breeze and warm sun of the Star Lake region.  One of the lines remained tied around Turnip-Head, who would hop to new positions whenever needed to ensure maximum sunlight and air reached the linens.

 

Stiles put her hands to her waist and stretched her tired back before she and Boyd went back into the castle.  Thanks to her work, they had several clean dishes to choose from for a mid-afternoon meal and all the food had been tidied and put away in the hutch or other cabinets.  Having unearthed a container of dry-cured ham, the two of them took a small table and chairs outside for lunch, settling on the sandy beach near the water.  They brought the ham, bread, cheese, and a pot of coffee for Stiles and a carafe of tea for Boyd, and settled in.  Stiles, being old, put her hat and woolen shawl on to keep her warm in the cool highland air while Boyd stayed in shirtsleeves and simple trousers.

 

Boyd ate a slice of bread piled with thin slivers of ham and cheese in a few bites, and then took his time on a second one.  He watched Turnip-Head hop off of the castle and over to another sloping lawn across from them, the laundry line stretching taut as he went.

 

“I think he _likes_ doing laundry,” Boyd opined.

 

“If you were a magical scarecrow, I imagine having _anything_ to do is a rare opportunity to be enjoyed,” Stiles muttered back.

 

Boyd snorted a laugh.  “I bet he’s some kind of demon, which is kind of strange.  Coralcifer doesn’t seem to mind him at all.”

 

“Then maybe he isn’t a demon if Coralcifer isn’t having a fit.”

 

“I dunno…”

 

“Well, try it this way, then: He led me here, so maybe he’s the good kind of demon.”

 

Boyd thought about it and then nodded.  “Could work.”

 

Stiles grinned.  “Fantastic.  Now: tell me about how that magic food hutch works.  Does it keep fresh only raw ingredients or can I cook meals and stuff them in there, and they’ll keep?”

 

Boyd smiled, big and bright.  “Both!  Raw ingredients, cooked meals – whatever goes in there stays fresh for a long while.”

 

Stiles made a pleased sound and sat back.  “Excellent.  I’m going to use up what’s in there to make a few meals.  We’ll have to go shopping again to replace things, but I figure we can hit the San Fran markets for that.”

 

“Aw, why?” he complained.  “I hate shopping!  Nothing’ll go bad so long as it’s in the hutch.”

 

“Because I’ve never been to San Francisco and I’ve always wanted to,” she replied.  “I want to see and smell the ocean, I want to visit their famous dockside markets, I want to get out of the castle on a little excursion and stretch my old bones.  How about: I just want to?”

 

Boyd sighed.  “Yeah, fine.  Master Derek will get mad if we don’t give him a head’s up, though, so it’s gotta wait until he gets back.”

 

“That’s fine.  I’ll be cooking for the next couple of days, so we have time.”

 

“He goes away for days on end, sometimes.”

 

“Still fine.  I might be at the end of my time, but I still have some to spare.”

 

Boyd grimaced and focused on his meal.

 

They ate their lunch, taking their time, and watched a storm roll in across the other side of the lake.  The dark clouds were dramatic in the sunlight streaming down from behind them, and the thunder rolled across the water to hit their ears as if they were right there in it.

 

A little bit later, Boyd noticed that Stiles had dozed off.  The old woman was hunched into her woolen cape and snoring lightly.  Having witnessed the cleaning frenzy of the past five days – having seen the bathroom, more recently! – Boyd knew precisely how hard Stiles had worked at getting the place clean.  He left her to sleep while he took the foodstuffs and table and his chair back inside, and then went to check on the laundry.  Finding it dry, he and Turnip-Head began reeling everything in.  He even folded things neatly before laying them in the basket so all the hard work wouldn’t be ruined.

 

Stiles woke up and found herself alone, but a quick glance back reassured her that the castle was still there and smoke was rising in gentle wisps from the chimney.  She settled back against the straight-backed chair she’d claimed and simply watched the scenery, content to sit and stare.

 

A little bit later, Boyd reappeared beside her.  “Stiles?  We got all the laundry put away.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles mumbled, rising from her stupor.  “Thank you, Boyd.”  She yawned; shook her head.  “It’s very, very strange being old.  When you are, all you want to do is sit and stare at the scenery.  It’s a far cry from my younger days, but I feel so… peaceful.”

 

“Considering how hard you’ve worked, I think you need a little peace,” Boyd said.

 

She gave a quiet chuckle.  “Yes, well, there’s still more to do before I can sleep tonight – and believe you me, I’ll sleep well.”

 

“There are only two bedrooms,” Boyd hedged, “mine and Derek’s.”

 

“That little cubby near the fireplace – it’s meant as accommodations for guests,” she answered.  “The one you guys were using as a mini library?”

 

He gave a sheepish grin.

 

“I’ll string a curtain up along that and set up a bed in there,” she explained.  “That will do me just fine.  My old bones will like being closer to the fire.”

 

“Okay…”

 

“That pink velvet chaise lounge we uncovered will fit just right.  A pillow or two, a blanket or few, and I’ll be right as rain.”

 

“If you’re sure.”

 

“I am.”

 

And that was that.

 

Boyd carried Stiles’ chair for her as they went back into the castle where she finished dusting and scrubbing and tidying up.  She couldn’t get into Derek’s room; a protective ward wouldn’t allow it, but she cleaned Boyd’s room with the young man’s help.  By the end of it, he was looking around in amazement at how clean everything was; tidy and neatly sorted, and a bed clean and soft with fresh bedding.

 

“Wow,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Been a while since I’ve seen it like this.”

 

“There’s no need for you to live like a slob, Boyd!” Stiles grumbled.  Her bones and joints were aching again.  “I’m going to check with Coralcifer for the weather, string up another load of laundry to dry overnight if it’s favorable, and then get a pot of stew to going before I take a long, hot soak in the tub.”

 

“Sure, Stiles,” Boyd agreed hastily.  “You do that.”

 

Coralcifer reported the weather would be fine, if cold, so laundry could be hung out with Turnip-Head’s help.  Stiles finished up the last of the piles waiting to be cleaned and with Boyd’s help, got them strung up just before dark settled in.  While Boyd finished scrubbing the dishes and bottles waiting in the sink, Stiles assembled a stew using beef and potatoes and whatever else she could find to fill it with and set the iron pot on Coralcifer for a slow simmer.

 

“Don’t let that scorch,” Stiles warned the fire.  “I made enough for the _four_ of us.”

 

Coralcifer bit back a mutter and adjusted her heat output so the stew wouldn’t burn and only complained a little when Stiles asked for hot water for a bath.  Seeing the creaky, painful way Stiles was moving, Coralcifer’s protest was more token than anything else.

 

Upstairs, with her nightgown fresh from sunning that day waiting for her, Stiles sank up to her neck in a tub full of blissfully warm water and finally relaxed.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

As it turned out there wasn’t all _that_ much food to cook with, but there was enough to make a few hearty meals that could be shared between all of them.

 

The morning after the day of bathroom cleaning and laundry, Stiles rose from her chaise lounge nest with creaking old joints and strained muscles.  She smacked her wrinkled old lips and blinked open gummy old eyes.  The fleece mitts that Isaac had made for her had gone cold around her hands, but that could be easily fixed.  She thought about sending a thank-you note to Isaac.  The mitts – kept warming by Coralcifer all day, every day, while Stiles cleaned – had been the only thing that made her hands useable the next day after sleeping with them on at night.

 

Hauling her flabby old carcass upright, Stiles groaned into a stretch.  Her muscles protested, her shoulders ached abominably, and she was _not_ looking forward to what her feet and ankles would have to say about bearing her weight.  Peeling back the blankets, she swung her legs over the side of the chaise and wriggled her feet into cold slippers.  She sat for a few moments, just blinking and resting, letting herself come alive a little.  Then, with a grunt, she pushed upright and wobbled forward a step until she got her wolf’s head cane into place to steady herself.

 

Once she was securely upright, she tugged on her night robe, belted it shut, and pushed aside the heavy brocade curtain that she’d found while cleaning and confiscated for her own use.

 

“Don’t _you_ look a fright,” Coralcifer sneered, watching Stiles stump toward the chair in front of the hearth.

 

Stiles, knowing her thin white hair was tangled in all directions around her wrinkly old head, snorted and eased down into the chair.  The groaning sigh couldn’t be helped as everything sagged into place with twinges of nuisance pain.  Once she was settled, Stiles leaned the cane against the hearth and held her mitt-covered hands out toward Coralcifer like she did every morning.

 

Coralcifer made a rude noise, but obligingly flared heat toward Stiles’ hands.

 

The mitts heated up and Stiles gave a happy sigh.  The scent of herbs and wool began to permeate the air and, as her fingers began to feel slick inside the mitts, Stiles began to wriggle them around to help loosen the bones and joints.

 

“Just so you know,” Coralcifer said, “Derek really liked the stew you made.”

 

Stiles blinked open eyes she hadn’t even known she’d closed.  She peered at Coralcifer in a squint.  “He did?”

 

“Yep.  He normally doesn’t eat a lot – too busy, too tired, whatever.  When he does eat, he grabs something from a market vendor while he’s out.  He had two bowls of your stew and bread to go with it.”

 

A smug smile stretched Stiles’ mouth.  “Good.”

 

“It really was,” Coralcifer agreed.  “Thanks for making some for me.  Those dopey guys never really stop to consider if I’d like to have something other than firewood.”

 

“You’re a fire; you don’t need human food.”

 

“I’m a fire – I consume whatever I’m given.”

 

“Point,” Stiles allowed.  “I’ll be spending a few days cooking.  I’ll make sure there’s enough for you, too.”

 

Coralcifer flared brighter and a blue-flame smile appeared.

 

Stiles took note of the percolator settled in the new pile of ash near Coralcifer’s log grate.  Coralcifer, seeing her looking, flared and blurred a little.

 

“Derek put that there before he went to bed,” she explained.  “He knows you like coffee, so he wanted me to have it heating up for you when you got up.”

 

Stiles smiled a little.  “That’s very kind of him.”

 

“Ha!  Derek doesn’t _do_ ‘kind’.  You embarrassed him into feeling guilty – like _that’s_ hard to do.”

 

“He doesn’t strike me as the sort to feel guilty.”

 

“It’s all he _can_ feel these days.”

 

Stiles’ eyes widened.  “How do you mean?”

 

Coralcifer gave her a sly look.  “You’ll have to find out on your own.”

 

“It has to do with your contract with him?”

 

Coralcifer made a humming noise and didn’t say a word.

 

Stiles made a rude noise in return and stretched, cracking her back and getting ready to start her day.

 

Boyd and Coralcifer both became pests in the next few days, wanting a taste of everything as chickens and vegetables were roasted; fish were fried and roasted and broiled; steaks and pork chops grilled and pot roasts done until tender.  Stocks were made from the bird carcasses and fish carcasses for soups and chowders.  Pies and cookies and muffins were made.

 

All of that ended up being full meals and desserts enough to last a _week_ – and that if Stiles reduced her portions.

 

Stiles had always been a hearty eater, but even she was flabbergasted by the amount of food Derek, Boyd, and Coralcifer consumed and the gusto with which they did it.

 

That was another thing that ended up being strange.  Boyd had claimed Derek hardly ever ate, but Derek showed up for every meal except breakfast.  Sure, sometimes he went right back out after supper, but he showed up for lunch and dinner; ate with his apprentice and his housekeeper, openly taking an interest in Boyd’s studies.

 

What was even stranger was that sometimes, Derek would sit with Stiles as she warmed her aching old bones by the fire.  The rheumatic potion he’d given her had done wonders with her joints and muscles.  She wasn’t a spring chicken by any means, but she could move easier without a fearful wince that anticipated horrid pain.  She could breathe easier as well, and her heart no longer strained to pump her blood.  Being able to move easier, Stiles would sit by the fire to keep warm while she tended to a pile of things that needed mending while listening to Derek and Coralcifer talk about spells and past adventures or listening to Derek read the Beacon Hills newspaper to her while she worked.

 

Occasionally, Boyd would join them to pick Derek’s brain for a spell he was being instructed to learn, but most of the time he spent late evenings talking with Coralcifer after Stiles had gone to bed.  Stiles thought the nickname “Cora” that Boyd gave the fire-demon was rather sweet, especially since the two seemed to be very close friends if the warmth of their tones while speaking to each other was any indication.

 

Stiles enjoyed those moments.  She was warming up to Derek, who still scowled a lot and spoke to her in the language of sarcasm, but she’d noticed the little kindnesses he afforded to her.

 

Coralcifer could say whatever she liked, Stiles decided, but Derek _could_ be kind if it occurred to him to be so.

 

She was getting no closer to figuring out the curse that had bound Derek and Coralcifer together despite the fire demon saying she’d dropped hint after hint to help.  Coralcifer, perversely, wouldn’t tell Derek about _Stiles’_ curse.  The way Coralcifer figured it: if Stiles’ curse got fixed, then she wouldn’t feel all that motivated to help Coralcifer – deal or no deal.  Stiles dropped plenty of her own hints, but if Derek noticed, then he gave no sign of it.

 

So, life continued on between the four of them.  Derek went out on mysterious errands, Boyd did the work assigned to him, Coralcifer griped about her lot in life while maintaining the castle, and Stiles cooked and cleaned and sewed.

 

If she thought that having to be old before her time wasn’t _too_ bad a price to pay for a cozy family, well, that was her thought alone to have.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

One morning, Stiles was awakened by the loud clang and rush of water through pipes.

 

She dragged herself upright with a groan and scrubbed at her face.  After a mighty yawn, she pulled the curtain aside and met Coralcifer’s gaze as she asked, “Is Derek back?”

 

“Yes, and he’s wasting all my hot water again,” Coralcifer groused, and then stuffed an entire log into her mouth.

 

By the time Stiles was up and wearing a battered old flannel robe over her nightgown, Coralcifer had started the percolator so Stiles could have coffee.

 

“Blessings upon your house,” Stiles muttered, yawning again.

 

Coralcifer cackled.  “You’re ridiculously easy to wring a compliment from.”

 

“Coffee’s easy to be easy for.”

 

Coralcifer laughed again.

 

Once she’d had her coffee, Stiles got started on breakfast.  Soon enough – despite Coralcifer’s vehement and routine protests – the scent of frying eggs and sausages drew Boyd downstairs.  The thunderous clatter of his feet made Stiles snort and roll her eyes, while Coralcifer admonished him to be a little more careful.

 

“I’m the one who maintains the protective charms on this place, you know!” she sulked.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Boyd muttered.  He threw her a grin and a wink and Coralcifer retreated under the fry pan, to Stiles’ amusement.

 

Once breakfast was finished and the dishes were done, Stiles and Boyd got dressed to go on an outing to the San Francisco dockside market.

 

“I don’t see why we have to do this,” Boyd complained as they stepped outside.  He was in his old man disguise.  “Master De—Howl hardly ever eats!  Why do you think we had so much food, still?”

 

“I’ve noticed him eating pretty well this past week,” Stiles replied.  “And storage charms are fine and wonderful, but they can’t hold food back from going stale _indefinitely_.  I checked with Coralcifer.  The food I used up this week was all purchased six months ago!  No wonder the eggs had that slight sulfuric smell.  But, I cooked up all the food, so now it’s time to go get fresh.  Besides, I’ve never been to San Francisco before and certainly never the dockside markets.  Come along!  I want to see what’s on offer.”

 

Pulling the door shut, Boyd followed Stiles with a scowl.

 

They headed down a popular avenue toward the ocean and the dockside markets.  Stiles smiled as she inhaled the sea air.

 

“You know, the ions generated by the waves washing in to shore are said to help heal physical maladies,” she stated.  “Maybe that’s why I feel so spry today?”

 

“You _are_ moving easier,” Boyd allowed.

 

“Yes.  And just look at that ocean!  So big, so blue!  And that lovely salt smell!”

 

“It _always_ looks like that; smells like that!”

 

“Again: new to me!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll get bored of it quick enough.”

 

Stiles didn’t think so, but she knew better than to argue with a young man in a petulant mood. 

 

Stiles and Boyd spent a good while perusing the dockside markets, picking up foods here and there.  Stiles purchased several braces of cleaned rabbits and some cleaned chickens, more bacon, some pork chops, some lamb chops, and some beef.  She had them delivered to the Wizard Hale shop and then set about gathering some herbs and vegetables.

 

Perching the basket she’d brought with her on a stand, Stiles sorted through the potatoes on offer at one stall and picked the best of the lot.

 

Boyd came to stand by her and said, gruff and petulant, “I hate potatoes!”

 

“Oh, so you didn’t care for those creamy, buttery mashed potatoes I made to go with the stew?” Stiles coaxed, recalling how eagerly Boyd had scarfed them down.

 

As if on cue, his belly rumbled and the gray beard of his disguise bristled and shifted as he twitched in response.

 

She smirked.  “Pay the man!”  To the marketer, she said, “Such excellent wares!  Have a good day.”

 

Having been a shop worker, she knew the weight of a good word even if it wasn’t entirely genuine.  Still, she was thoroughly pleased with the outing and her purchases so far, so her words were absolutely genuine.

 

She moved aside so Boyd could hand copper coins to the marketer and then gestured for him to take the now-heavy basket. 

 

“Thanks!” the marketer said, a beaming smile on his weathered, brown face.  “Come again!”

 

Boyd nodded and took up the basket, grunting a little, and gave Stiles a sly dirty look that she ignored as she turned and led the way to a fish stall.

 

“I hate fish!” Boyd growled, watching her test red snapper and haddock for firmness and smell.

 

“I’m sure fish hate you,” Stiles retorted, winking at the amused grin the fish monger gave her.  “But I know this recipe for a lovely chowder with a rich cream broth; garlic, soft potatoes, and fish so tender it melts in your mouth – all with this golden, buttery taste.”

 

Boyd’s stomach growled again.

 

“All our fish were caught fresh this morning,” the fish monger said.  “Trade you that recipe for half off your total purchase?”

 

Stiles did a quick bit of math in her head and figured out which fish to choose and to double so she would essentially acquire twice as much for one price.

 

Just as she was about to agree to the deal, she became aware of a murmur of voices rising in agitation and excitement.

 

“One of our ships is in the harbor!” yelled one man, running past.

 

“It looks like it’s on fire!” yelled another.

 

Stiles and Boyd both turned in time to see the throng of people around them begin surging down to the docks proper.

 

One man stopped and leaned over Stiles’ shoulder to say to the fish marketer “Looks like there’s been a serious battle!” before continuing on his way.

 

“What?  Wait!  What happened?  Sorry, Granny, we’re closed!” the fish monger stammered, and then he, too, was gone – hurrying down to the docks to see the commotion.

 

Stiles and Boyd followed, joining the men and women crowding six deep at the dock, and watched a Californian battleship slowly pull into the harbor.  It was _destroyed_ ; broken, cracked, and dented – scorched with burn marks and blasted full of holes, most of its guns missing.  It was listing even as it moved, sinking, but the pilot of the vessel was trying to get it as close to shallow water as possible as it blew its horns and whistles, signaling distress; mayday, mayday, mayday.

 

In the harbor, tugboats and dinghies launched, powering out to meet the doomed ship as its sailors began clustering above decks.  Life-rings and hardy men stood at the ready to retrieve whoever couldn’t swim on their own.

 

Finally, the military ship could go no further.  As smoke spewed from its rear and sides in gouts of acrid black clouds, the “dead in the water” bells clanged and sailors abandoned ship.  The blue-and-white clad figures dove into the blue-green waters of the harbor and surfaced to swim or be towed to the rescue boats that sped to meet them.

 

From where she stood up against a shop wall, Stiles could see the sailors: all of them looked like they’d been through hell.  Most of them were burnt, scorched, and injured in some fashion or another.  Even as she watched, teams of able-bodied sailors slipped carefully into the water carrying unresponsive crewmates; sacrificing speed in order to keep their unconscious crewmate’s head above water.

 

Beside her, Boyd all but vibrated with excitement.  Wide-eyed in his old man disguise, Boyd forgot the ultra-deep voice as he coaxed, “C’mon, Stiles!  Let’s get a closer look!”

 

Stiles backed up further against the wall, shaking her head.  She felt ill, her heart pounding and aching in her chest.   “No.  No!  No, Boyd – I’ve seen all I can stomach.  Let’s go home!”

 

She turned to take hold of Boyd’s arm, intent on dragging the younger man away, only to freeze as she spotted a familiar form among the rubberneckers.

 

Lurching back, flattening up against the wall, she hissed, “It’s one of the Witch’s henchmen!”

 

“ _What?_ ” Boyd gasped, and began searching.

 

“Quiet down!” she snapped, jostling him with an elbow.  “It’s only a few feet away!”

 

Boyd went still and straight beside Stiles, who heard him mutter something under his breath.  Beneath his cloak, motion was visible and she realized he was casting an anti-detection spell.

 

“Won’t working magic draw them?” Stiles whispered.  She was so tense with anxiety it felt like her bones would shatter.

 

Boyd gave a minute shake of his head.  “This spell was designed to purposely evade the Witch’s monsters.  It takes our biological presence, copies it, and while it masks _us_ , the copy signal is then sent away from where we are.  It’ll follow the copy and give us time to get away – see?”

 

Stiles cautiously leaned around Boyd in time to see the black blob monster in a gentleman’s suit move off through the crowd in the opposite direction.

 

She breathed out and relaxed.  “It’s gone!  But how did no one else notice the blob monster among them?”

 

“An illusion spell,” Boyd muttered.  “To them, it appeared like any other suited gentleman.”

 

A shrill whistle split the air and they both flinched back.  Everyone else gasped and looked up, crying out as an Oregonian airship flew overhead.

 

Several feet from the now powerless Californian ship, away from the rescue boats and personnel, bombs hit the water and exploded in a neat line of flame and water and smoke.

 

Screaming filled the air.  Some people stayed, most scattered, and even as Boyd pointed out the airship to Stiles, paper spewed from the ship to flutter down in a cloud of soft rustling sounds.

 

Stiles caught a glimpse of a pretty blonde girl in a pink silk dress drawn on the paper and the words “princess” and “return” as she bolted through the crowd for the main avenue and up the hill toward home.

 

“Stiles!” Boyd called out behind her, chasing after.  “Wait up!  _Stiles!_ ”

 

She ignored him, leading the charge to the door of the building marked _The Great Wizard Hale_.  She burst through the door, gasping and groaning, with Boyd hot on her heels.  He crowded her against the stairs long enough to get the door closed, and then turned to take hold of her arm.

 

“Stiles?” he asked, frowning.  “Your color is bad.  Stiles?  You okay?”

 

“I just… water… I need…”

 

“It’s her heart!” Coralcifer called out.  “Get her up here and put her in the chair!”

 

Boyd bustled Stiles up the stairs, laying the basket down as they ascended the top, and hurried her over to the straight-backed chair set before the hearth.

 

Stiles sank into it, sprawled, gasping; her head tipped back as she panted for air, her eyes closed.

 

“Get her that water!” Coralcifer snapped at Boyd, and he ran to fill a glass with cold water from the tap.

 

He came back and helped Stiles drink while Coralcifer kept a critical eye on the old woman.  Once the water was drunk, Boyd picked up one of Stiles’ hands and chafed it, hoping to calm her down.

 

Several minutes later, Stiles’ color evened out and she stopped looking ill.  Her breathing slowed and she seemed to strengthen, a scowl crashing across her craggy and mole-spotted face as she sat up and pulled her hand from Boyd’s.

 

“Alright, alright, enough!” she crabbed.  “Thank you; I feel much less like death.”

 

Boyd grinned at her.

 

And that’s when a terrible howl rent the air with so much power behind it that the room shook and Stiles was toppled out of the chair.

 

Boyd caught hold of her, hauling her upright, and they both turned to look as they heard the howling coming toward them.

 

“What—?” Stiles started to say, and then sucked in a sharp breath as Boyd pushed in front of her.

 

His features had changed drastically; a heavy, mottled brow formed a ridge over his eyes that were now glowing gold.  His jaw had shifted to allow room for big, sharp fangs.  Hair had tufted along the sides of his face and his ears had gone pointy.  He crouched, setting himself, and at the ends of his fingers she saw wicked and curving claws.

 

“Stiles!” Coralcifer called, and she looked to the fire demon.  “Stay still!  Whatever you do, don’t run!”

 

“But—“

 

And then, Derek appeared.

 

He, too, had changed shape.  He had fangs and claws and the same mottled brow that had warped Boyd’s face (and where had his eyebrows even gone, Stiles wondered) only his eyes were glowing bright blue.  He was hulking with muscle, a towel the only claim to dignity he had at the moment, and every last hair on his body had turned pink.

 

If Stiles wasn’t so certain she was about to die, given the way that bright blue glare locked on her, she’d have laughed herself into a hernia on the spot.

 

Derek tried to come at her, but Boyd blocked him.  The two men snarled and growled as they grappled with each other.  Claws ripped cloth and skin while Coralcifer shouted at both of them to knock it off, threatening to extinguish herself if they didn’t back down.

 

Eventually, the fighting receded, but Derek was still in a horrible mood.  His mouth bristling with fangs, he grabbed at the thick thatch of pink on his head with claw-tipped fingers and _glared_ at Stiles.

 

“ _Stiles!_ ” he bellowed.  “You _sabotaged me_ , damn it!  Look!  Look what you did to my _hair!_ ”

 

Catching Boyd by surprise, he shoved his apprentice out of the way and stormed up to the old woman.  He shoved right into Stiles’ personal space, tugging frantically at the pink strands, and screamed, “ _Look!_ ”

 

Stiles gasped at the scent of warm skin and clover-scented soap.  Derek’s strong body looked damp and warm and inviting, and all she wanted to do was _lick_ despite the terrifying monster parts he’d suddenly sprouted.  The urge to lick wasn’t anything new.  With every new moment spent together, she’d taken more and more of a liking to him to the point he featured heavily in her dreams – and not always clothed.

 

Fighting off inappropriate thoughts, Stiles focused on the hair being held beneath her age-enlarged nose and stammered, “What a pretty color!”

 

“It’s _hideous!_ ” Derek howled.  He reared up and glared furiously at her.  “You _completely_ ruined the potions in the bathroom!  I grabbed the wrong ones!  I didn’t know!  I told you not to get carried away!”

 

“I didn’t!” Stiles shouted back.  “I did my _job_ , which was to clean this slovenly pig sty up!  Besides: aren’t _you_ the wizard?  Aren’t _you_ supposed to know what you’re mucking about with?”

 

Derek let out a raging howl and turned away.  In doing so, it allowed Stiles to see the strange, three-armed spiral tattoo nestled between his shoulder-blades.

 

“It’s no use!” Derek shouted, kicking at the fireplace.  Coralcifer yelled at him, but he ignored her.  “It’s no use!  Every time I trust someone, I’m betrayed!”

 

Beside Stiles, Boyd sucked in a sharp breath at the insult.  Stiles patted his hand.

 

Derek dropped into the chair and hunched over, elbows on his knees and his head held in his hands.  In his hands, his hair changed to magenta and then to a sickly purple color that then faded to his natural lustrous black.

 

“Oh,” Stiles sighed, relieved, “that’s better; you fixed it.”

 

Derek growled.  “Oh, shut up.  You stupid old woman!  You’ve done enough to me.”  He groaned.  “It’s no use.  Whatever I do, I’m always ruined by the person I trusted.”

 

Stiles gaped at him.  _Seriously?_   Of all the stupid, whiny, selfish things she’d ever heard…!

 

Before she could even give voice to her thoughts, the house began to shake and the lights dimmed.  Shadows everywhere gathered… and then, formed monstrous shapes as groaning and howling erupted from them.

 

“Derek, cut it out!” Coralcifer screeched, wide-eyed with worry as the shadows crept up the hearth and swept toward her logs.  “Derek, no – stop it!”

 

Boyd shuddered as he stood beside Stiles.  “He’s calling the Spirits of Darkness!  I saw him do this once before when a girl dumped him!”

 

“Only _once?_ ” Stiles shouted, glaring, afraid.  “Given the way he behaves—!”

 

“Usually, _he’s_ the one doing the dumping!  He doesn’t have the heart to stick with ‘em!”

 

Stiles made a sharp noise and stepped forward.  She bent to bark into Derek’s ear: “Now, Howl – _Derek!_   Listen here: you’re alright!  You—“

 

She’d put her hand on Derek’s bare shoulder, only to flinch and pull back as viscous green goo stretched between her hand and his skin.

 

“Eeeugh!” she whined, and flapped her hand to shake the slime off as she stepped back again.

 

As she watched, the green slime welled up out of Derek’s pores and coated him in a cocoon of the stuff that began sliding off to puddle on the floor.

 

Stiles looked at insensate Derek, at the slime, at the shadows, and back to Derek.  And, abruptly, she was more furious than she’d ever been in her _life_.

 

“Oh, _piss on ya!_ ” she bellowed, stentorian with rage.  “You think you’ve got it so bad?  Strong, powerful wizard – _HA!_   All it takes to bring you down is to muss up your foofy hair!  All that magic, all that charm, and so beautiful without half even trying!  I’ve never once been beautiful in my life!  I’ve never been strong or powerful or pretty; I’ve never had anyone to really rely on except myself!  I’ve never had what you have – and I seem to have done alright!  I’d give anything to have _me_ back again instead of – of – of _this!_   But, no, no one can possibly have it worse than you!  So go ahead and cry, you big sissy!  Cry your damned eyes out!  I don’t care anymore!”

 

With that last shout, Stiles turned and ran for the stairs leading to the door.

 

“Stiles!” Boyd exclaimed in alarm.

 

“I’ve had enough of this place!” she declared.  She grabbed the knob, twisted it to Reality Green, and ran out into the cold, rainy evening at Star Lake.

 

She made her way across the grass and all the way to the water’s edge.  She stood there, staring at the water and wondering if she _should_ … and knew, deep in her dodgy old heart, that no; she shouldn’t.  She wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

 

But it would be so easy.  She wouldn’t have to put up with temper tantrums from a taciturn wizard; she wouldn’t have to give up everything for a family that was happy to sacrifice her to an unjust trope, she wouldn’t have to sacrifice what was left of her youth for a group of magical people that were more like children than wizards and demons.  It would be so easy – but it wasn’t what she _wanted_.

 

As the cold rain soaked her dress clear through to her skin, Stiles let tears mingle with the rain on her face as she stood out in the wet and felt sorry for herself.

 

Thumping caught her attention, as did the sudden lack of rain directly hitting her face.  Glancing up, Stiles found Turnip-Head lurking beside her, an umbrella gripped in one tattered-gloved hand.

 

She gave the scarecrow a wan smile.  “You’ll rot from mildew standing out here, taking care of a grumpy old biddy like me.”

 

Turnip-Head leaned toward her, offering reassurance.

 

Stiles sighed.  “Thank you.  It just… got to be a bit much for a moment.  But I’ll be alright.”

 

Boyd pelted out of the castle and skittered to a stop beside her.  He grabbed Stiles’ arm and tugged.

 

“Stiles!  You have to get back inside, now!” he snapped.  “Derek listens to you!  I know he does!  Every time you talk – and you talk _a lot_ – he fixates on you!  Come back in and _talk sense into him!_ ”

 

Stiles sighed and nodded, allowing Boyd to hurry her inside.  She called back over her shoulder, “Get under shelter, Turnip-Head!”

 

Boyd muttered under his breath and _pulled_.

 

When they got up into the main room proper, Derek had slumped forward to rest atop the fireplace hearth.  The green slime was oozing everywhere, flooding directly into Coralcifer’s firewood.  The fire demon was cussing Derek up one wall and down the other before she noticed Stiles’ return.

 

“Stiles!  Stiles, do something!” Coralcifer shouted, lifting bits of wood higher and pulling herself up as high off as she could go from the half-burnt log she was on.  “Help him!  Help _me!_ ”

 

Boyd grimaced at the limp puddle of green goo that was his master.  “Is he dead?”

 

“Has the castle crumbled around us; have all of his spells cut off?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, of course not.  He’s not dead, Boyd – he’s having a _temper tantrum_.”

 

Boyd blinked, and then snorted a laugh.

 

“Such drama,” Stiles sighed.  “It’s like he’s a child in a man’s body.”

 

Coralcifer flared bright gold and blue.

 

Stiles snorted.  “Yes, yes – I’m getting to work.  It’s what I do: save the day.  Honestly; relying on an old fogey like me….”

 

Coralcifer gave her a peevish glare.  “ _Stiles_.  I’m going to _drown_.”

 

“Oh, pipe down.  Boyd, put some new wood off to the back corner, there, and help Coralcifer onto it – then, come help me with Derek.”

 

“I – but – I can’t!” Boyd protested.  “Derek is the only one that can move her out of her hearth!”

 

“You can because you _have to_ ,” Stiles encouraged.  “You absolutely can move Coralcifer out of her hearth, as far as you need to.”

 

Boyd sucked in a breath, nodded, and hurried to gather new logs.  He helped Coralcifer climb onto them, set them in the far back, and then blocked the slime from reaching the fire demon with a few iron pots and pans.  Then, he went to where Stiles stood, her sleeves rolled up and a determined scowl on her face.

 

Together, they shoved the chair across the floor with Derek still slumped into an insensate curl.  Once at the base of the stairs, they each got a slimy green arm over their shoulders and began hauling Derek up the steps while the nasty slime soaked into their clothes, making them shiver as it slicked their skin.

 

Halfway up, Stiles shook her head and said, “I’ve got this; I’m not completely crippled!  I need you to run ahead, Boyd, and get the hot water running and sort out the _basic_ cleaning potions.  If he wants any frippery, he can attend to that himself!”

 

“Right!” Boyd agreed.  He let Derek’s arm slip from his shoulders and went bolting up the stairs out of sight.  A few moments later, the rattle and whoosh of hot water running through pipes and into the tub could be heard.

 

“ _Come on_ , Derek!” Stiles chivvied.  “You can still walk!”

 

Derek’s legs fumbled up a few steps and then, Stiles heard a splat.  Half-fearing it was some organ or another that had plopped out of the petulant man, she glanced down and discovered it was no organ – only the towel that had given him any sort of modesty.

 

Stiles snapped her eyes upward, refusing to look.  She didn’t want her first – or only – glimpse of Derek’s cock to be while the thing was slimy and gangrenous looking!

 

Boyd returned and got Derek’s arm back over his shoulder.  Together, they hauled the sulking wizard up the stairs to the bathroom and dumped him into the tub.

 

“This is as far as I go,” Stiles declared.  She pointed at Boyd when the young man made to protest.  “ _You’re_ the apprentice!  Attend your master!  _I’ve_ got cleaning to do – as usual!”

 

“Aw, man,” Boyd whined, but he reached for a washcloth hanging from a rack.

 

“Get him cleaned up and then you and I will have some cocoa to relax with.”

 

“Rather have a beer,” Boyd muttered.

 

Stiles snorted.  “Yes, fine, swill it is.  Just clean him up.”

 

She stepped out of the bathroom and pulled the door shut.  Straddling the slime trail Derek had left in the hallway, she planted her fists on her hips and sighed.

 

“Wonderful,” she groused.  “Now I have to mop again.  Childish, inconvenient wizard!”

 

With that, she went downstairs for her cleaning tools.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Two hours later, Stiles knocked on Derek’s bedroom door.  Boyd had gotten his master cleaned up and dressed into an old shirt and pajama pants, and put him to bed.  Stiles had made cocoa for herself and Derek, gotten Boyd a bottle of beer from the ice box Derek had magicked into existence in the pantry, and then she and Boyd had settled down in front of Coralcifer to relax while Boyd explained about him and his master being werewolves.

 

Now, Stiles was worried about Derek – because, honestly, seeing a grown man of Derek’s power have a meltdown over a change in hair color had been terrifying.  If all it took to make him call forth Spirits of Darkness and go slimy was an unexpected hair color change, then what else might set him off?

 

She knocked and knocked, but received no answer.  With a cup of cocoa in hand, Stiles sighed and said, “Derek, I’m coming in.”

 

The door opened for her, which surprised her.  She’d fully expected it to be locked and warded against her.  Instead, the door opened and she stepped into a room that was minimalist to the point of monk status.  The walls were free of any paint but looked like they’d been through a fire; black and ashy in places.  A dull wood armoire that looked half-charred stood in a corner of the room.  There was a singed trunk piled with books underneath a window that looked smudged with ash.  The only decadence to be seen was a copper wire mobile fitted with sparkling jewels that hung above a bed piled with pillows, a navy blue comforter, and one wizard with all the signs of a tension headache as he stared up at the mobile, his mouth set in a grim line in his morose face.

 

Stiles imagined Derek’s head really _was_ hurting pretty badly.  Tantrums had always left _her_ with a massive headache when she’d been a child – and furious emotions didn’t help her much as a grown woman, either.

 

 _What an infant_ , she thought to herself.  _How can this man-child be such a fearsome wizard?  Maybe it’s the werewolf thing?_

 

Aloud, she said, “I’ve brought you some warm cocoa.  Want a sip?”

 

Derek let out a weak groan and shook his head from side-to-side in small motions as he closed his eyes.

 

Stiles wanted so badly to slap him out of his pout, but instead set the cup down on a corner of the bed table.  “I’ll leave it here for you.  Cocoa isn’t good cold, so try to drink it before it gets that way.”

 

She turned and walked away.  Before she could do more than get her hand on the door handle, she heard Derek call her name.  Turning, she shuffled back to the wizard’s bedside, her hands aching and her knees and hips creaking.

 

“Did you want that cocoa after all?” she asked, bemused.

 

Derek shook his head again, pathetically weak, and said nothing.

 

After a moment, she realized he simply wanted company.  Having nothing else to do, really, Stiles sat down and fixed him with a critical gaze.

 

“Boyd explained about the werewolf thing,” she murmured, and watched the skin around Derek’s eyes wince a little before he opened them to look at her.  “He said you found him starving and alone, with no pack; that he was Omega until you took him in and gave him a home and began training him.  Until now, werewolves were just fairytale monsters to me.  Considering we live in a land ruled by fairytale tropes, I don’t know why I’m surprised to find werewolves exist.”

 

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” Derek rasped, and turned his gaze up toward the mobile.

 

“I very nearly quit,” Stiles agreed.  “But not because of the werewolf thing – and if you ever flash fangs in my face like that again, I will dunk you in a flea bath at once.”

 

“I _could_ rip your throat out – with my teeth.”

 

“Flea bath!”

 

Derek sighed and kept his gaze on the mobile.  Suddenly, it flared into activity.  One of the larger gems, a round purple stone, sparkled with a magical light and rang with a gentle chime of sound.

 

Derek squinted at it and grumbled, “The Witch of the Waste is trying to find my castle.”

 

Stiles flinched and gave the shining gem a narrow-eyed glare.  “I saw one of her henchmen at the harbor today.”

 

Derek sighed and looked away.  “My fault.”

 

She snorted.  “How do you mean?”

 

“This… this whole thing.  I made the mistake of letting her seduce me once, years ago.  She was pretty and we were both strong with power, so if anyone had a beef with me and tried to go after her for it, she could deal with it.  She seemed sweet, too.  Shy and charming and adorable; I forgot that for anyone to have that much power, she’d have to lose her charming innocence.  You can’t be shy with magic.  I figured out it was all an illusion.  I thought she knew I didn’t want anything permanent; I just wanted to forget for a little while.  I underestimated her greediness and her obsessive nature.  Now, she stops at nothing to acquire me; to get my _heart_.”

 

“So… what?  She started the _war_ just to draw you out of hiding?”

 

“Maybe.  It’s something she’s capable of.  But she’s certainly using the war’s effects and distractions to come after me.  She doesn’t seem to care I don’t want her so long as she gets what _she_ wants.”

 

“So take your magic and thrash her a good one,” Stiles encouraged.  “Maybe then she’ll stop going around and ruining peoples’ lives if she’s too busy tending to the ruin of her own!”

 

Derek let out a bitter laugh.  “You don’t get it, do you?  I’m a _coward_ , Stiles.  I’m terrified of being hurt so I learned magic to keep everyone _away_.  All of this is just so I can hide.”  He closed his eyes on a grimace.  “I can’t stand how scared I am.  I see you being so brave and I’m… ashamed.”

 

Stiles blinked.  She didn’t consider herself a brave woman at all.  If she could, she’d run away from her problems, too.

 

“I’m running out of time, though – running out of room to run,” Derek murmured.  “I’m walking the line as it is.  My king has called for me and I’m supposed to report to the palace – as Hale _and_ Wulfric.”

 

She gave him a shrewd look.  “I know the name Hale from somewhere.  But what did you mean you took up with her to ‘forget for a little while’?  What did you mean by not wanting to be hurt?”

 

Derek looked at her for several long, quiet moments.  Finally, he sighed and said, “It’s all one and the same.  You know the name Hale from Beacon Hills.  Do you recall hearing about a house burning down and a family dying?  Of a woman found lying in the ruins with her throat slashed out?”

 

Stiles blinked.  Of a sudden, the information sprang to her mind.  It felt very much like she was waking up.

 

“Yes!” she exclaimed.  “I know it; I’ve known it for a while!  But why do I feel like I forgot it but didn’t?”

 

“I enchanted you to not care about the name; to pay no mind to it,” Derek explained.  The corners of his mouth curled up a little.  “You’ve already snooped quite a bit through my spell books and papers.  I didn’t want you to interrogate me about the fire.”

 

Stiles glared at him.  “You mucked with my mind?”

 

“No – just your priorities.  I didn’t want to be one of them.”

 

“But—!”

 

“I’ve removed the enchantment.  What do you remember about it?”

 

“It was horrible.  It made my father cry,” Stiles answered, her voice soft.  “He’s the Sheriff of Beacon Hills.  He was the old Sheriff’s deputy at the time and he came home smelling like smoke and sadness.  He hugged me and my sisters and cried for a bit, and then explained that something had happened to a nice family and they were gone.”

 

Derek gave her an unreadable look.  He nodded and said, “There are people who know about the existence of werewolves.  They’re Hunters; the kind that go after fairytale monsters – or what _they_ perceive to be monsters.  I don’t deny that werewolves can be vicious and frightening on occasion, but most of us really aren’t that bad.  We just want to live our lives.”

 

“With you so far.”

 

“Alright – so imagine, if you will, a fifteen-year-old boy who meets a beautiful blonde woman who promises him the moon and stars.  She kisses him, does _more_ with him, and smiles at him until he believes he’s found the love of his life and invites her into his home.”

 

Stiles shivered against a chill of foreboding.  “Derek…”

 

He shook his head.  “I was blind stupid with love – with _lust_ – with what I _thought_ was love.  So blind stupid until the fire brought everything to light.  It took time and training, lots of work and lots of things I shouldn’t have had to do, but I proved it was Kate Argent that set a potion bomb off in the house and lined the property with mountain ash.  It’s a wood; we can’t cross its boundary, whatever form it’s in.  My family couldn’t get out.  The only survivors were my sisters and my Uncle – and he was so badly burned it left him crippled.”

 

Horrified, Stiles let out a soft groan.  She shook her head and then asked, “Where are your sisters?”

 

“Laura’s dead,” Derek replied, his tone flat and cold.  “My younger sister is… I’m in constant communication with her, but I won’t have anyone knowing where she is.  If I lost her too… it would kill me.”

 

Stiles nodded.  “I understand.  So… you tore out Kate Argent’s throat and left her body in the ruins for symbolism?”

 

Derek shook his head.  “No.  Something else did that.  Another werewolf, certainly, and I’m assuming the same one that murdered Laura to gain her Alpha powers.  She became the Alpha – the most powerful of us – after our mother died.  The problem is that I don’t know who killed her and Kate.  I’ve been trying to find out because I’m _angry_.  I’m furious about the loss of my sister and honestly…?  I wanted to kill Kate _myself_ – if I could work up the courage to go near her.  I saw her a few times after the fire.  She’d give me this _grin_ , maybe a lick of the lips and a wink, and the next thing I knew I’d be somewhere far away, having run so fast and so far that my sides ached and I could hardly breathe.”

 

“I don’t blame you.  I’d have run from her, too.  She was a psychopath.”

 

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

 

Stiles blinked at that rejoinder.

 

Derek sighed and looked up at the mobile again as the light and chime faded from the purple stone.   “The Witch of the Waste… she has a vendetta against werewolves herself from something that happened long ago.  She thought I was the perfect tool for helping her get revenge – but she also fell in love with me, or so she says.  I can’t abide women with ulterior motives.  I can’t _trust_ someone who says they love me and then tries to use me for something.”

 

Stiles controlled a flinch.  She’d never said she loved him and she wasn’t actually using him for anything, but she still felt weirdly guilty.

 

“Okay,” she said, “so you’re running from the Witch and from your own trauma – which, by the way, you should consider therapy for.  You might not have been burned physically, but Argent certainly injured you.  And now you have the king demanding you go to war for him as Hale and…?”

 

“Wulfric,” Derek reminded her.  “It means ‘wolf power’.”

 

She snorted and he actually grinned at her.

 

Stiles shrugged and said, “You’re Howl in Beacon Hills, Hale in San Francisco, and Wulfric in L.A.  You’ve got enough aliases and can probably make more.  Maybe you can skip the call to service.  Refuse the King’s invitations and shuffle from one name to the next and hope the war ends before you’re called on again.”

 

“Won’t work.  See that?”

 

Derek pointed up at a piece of filigreed paper pinned with darts and daggers to a section of wall beside the bed.  Stiles _had_ noticed it upon entering, but had turned her attention from it rather than be eaten alive by curiosity.

 

“That,” he said, “is the oath I signed when I entered the Royal Sorcery Academy.  I agreed I would report to the palace when summoned.”

 

“And if you don’t?” asked Stiles, her voice soft.

 

He gave a humorless smirk.  “I’ll have wished I never heard of magic by the time they’re through with me. The King’s Court Sorcerer; _the_ Royal Wizard, was my training master.  He was grooming me to take his place someday but I _ran_ from that plan – ran away, like I always do.  It wasn’t long after the fire, actually.  I just couldn’t face it.  But if anyone can bring me to heel, pigeonhole me into conformity, it’s him.”

 

Stiles scowled.  “He sounds thoroughly horrible.”

 

“He… is and he isn’t,” Derek hedged.  “He’s very, very driven; focused; determined.  He always has a plan and he insists on being obeyed.  Woe to anyone who steps out of line.”

 

“Rather arbitrary, isn’t it?  He gets to determine who has and hasn’t obeyed and responds accordingly.”

 

Derek grinned.  “Now you’re catching on.”

 

Stiles rolled her eyes.

 

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments as neither of them knew what to say.  Then, an idea occurred to Stiles and she sat up a little straighter in excitement.  She grinned and pointed at Derek. Startled, the wizard-wolf met her gaze.

 

“You _should_ go to the palace!” Stiles declared.  “Go, meet with the King, and tell him where he can shove this stupid war.  Tell him you refuse to take part in killing innocent civilians who’ve done nothing to deserve it!”

 

Derek sighed and shook his head.  “You obviously do not know what these people are like.  And, quite frankly, I don’t trust Finstock.  There’s something a little bit weird about him.  He might not have had anything official to do with Oregon’s Crown Princess disappearing, but he’s eager for this war just the same.”

 

“But that… that’s ridiculous!” Stiles snapped.  “Just because _he_ wants it doesn’t mean his _citizens_ do!  He should listen to us!  We outnumber him, after all.  We don’t have to keep him as our King if he won’t do right by us!”

 

Derek snorted a laugh.  “Preach, Minister.”

 

Stiles rolled her eyes.

 

Derek’s eyes widened.  He bolted upright, startling her into a flinch and a yelp.

 

“That’s it!” he yelled.  “That is _the plan!_   I’ve got it!  _You_ go to the palace _for me!_ ”

 

She gaped at him.  “You are out of what’s left of your tiny little mind!”

 

“You couldn’t be my mother, but you could be my _grandmother_ ; you certainly look the part!” he said with a smirk.  “Just go to the palace and declare yourself as… as _Wulfric’s_ grandmother.  Go, and state that your grandson is such a _cowardly_ no-good-nothing, a sham of a wizard, that he refuses to show his face among his betters!  Maybe _then_ the Royal Wizard will _finally_ give up on me!”

 

Stiles gaped at him some more, and then sighed and shook her head.

 

“It won’t _work_ ,” she said.  “For one thing: you are _counting on_ the Royal Wizard to know that you are Wulfric.  If he knows you are Wulfric, then he knows your real name.  For another thing: he was your training master and grooming you to take his place.  He’ll have looked into and located your family members; found out who they are.  He’ll then know that you have no grandmother named Wulfric, that this is all a lie, and _I_ will be the one he lashes out at to punish _you!_ ”

 

Derek bit his lip and looked beseechingly at Stiles.

 

She curled her lip at him.  “None of that matters so long as you don’t have to do it yourself, does it?’

 

“Stiles…”

 

She held up a hand and looked away.  “No, don’t bother trying to defend yourself.  We both know it’s true.  Well, can’t say as I’m surprised.  I cleaned this hovel from top-to-bottom; made it fit to bring visitors to, but I _did_ accidentally set you up to have a crying fit about your hair.

 

“I did _not_ cry!” he retorted, scowling.

 

She ignored him.  “I suppose this is my punishment, then – one you can dole out now I’m no longer actually needed around here; at least until you crud the place up again.  But I suppose desperate and frightened people seeking a wizard’s help are a dime a dozen – especially these days.”

 

Derek closed his eyes on a pained grimace.  “Stiles, no.  It isn’t like that.”

 

“Ha!  I’ll have you know, _Hale_ , that I was the smartest girl at my school until my youngest sister came along.  I know you consider me a hick yokel, unwise in the way of magic, but I’m actually smarter than you think.  I know when I’m being used, being sent on a fool’s errand, being _sacrificed_.”

 

She pushed up onto her feet, her body aching mightily.  She still drew herself up strong and proud as she stared down at the man sitting in the bed.

 

“I’ll do your dirty work for you, _Wizard Howl_ ,” she said.  “Maybe then you might help me – assuming I survive.”

 

Derek flinched and looked down at his quilt-covered knees as Stiles let herself out of the wizard’s bedroom.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

An hour later, she stood in front of a full-length mirror as she critically eyed her new dress.

 

Actually, it was her old dress, but spiffed up.  No longer boring, it was now blue and silk with a luxurious sheen to it.  Her petticoat was now bright white silk and the black stockings on her legs were also silk.  Her worn, brown boots were now fully mended and highly polished.  The cane that Turnip-Head had found for her weeks ago and that Boyd now held had been strengthened and polished to a brilliant shine.

 

Meeting her own determined gaze in the mirror, Stiles pulled on her straw hat as if it were a helmet.  She certainly felt like a soldier marching off to war.

 

“You’re wearing that hat?” Derek tsked, handing over the envelope bearing the name Wulfric.  “After all the magic I used making your dress look pretty?”

 

“It’s _my_ hat,” she snapped, snatching the envelope from him.  “I won’t part with it – not for anything!”

 

Derek held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Yes, fine, alright!”

 

Stiles snorted and turned to Boyd, taking her cane from the young man.  “Take care of him, Boyd!  The delicate wizard needs all the help he can get!”

 

Derek rolled his eyes so hard his head jerked on his neck, and then followed her to the door.

 

“Good luck!” called out Coralcifer.

 

Stiles snorted again.  She flipped the color wheel to Los Angeles Pink, but before she could open the door, Derek’s palm slapped onto the door to hold it closed.  She gasped, and then shivered as his hands drifted down and took hold of her left hand.  A moment later, Derek’s ring – the one with the sapphire stone he’d been wearing since they day they met – was slipped onto Stiles’ ring finger.

 

She tried not to let her heart feel too much.

 

“This charm,” he murmured in her ear, body warm and sturdy against her side, “will guarantee your safe return.”

 

Stiles turned to meet Derek’s gaze.  She felt ancient; too old, too innocent, too ugly for the pretty wizard, but the way he was looking at her – it was like that May Day only weeks ago when Derek had plucked her out of one danger only to land her smack dab in another one.  He had looked at her like this, then; looked at her as if she were someone interesting and worth the time spent on her.

 

Stiles almost wished she didn’t know better.

 

“Now,” Derek said, his voice stronger, louder.  He reached past her and yanked open the door.  “Off you go!  I’ll follow you in disguise so I can be near if you’re in trouble.  It’s the least I can do.”

 

“If you’re just going to follow anyway, why not—?!”

 

“’Bye!” Derek exclaimed, and shoved her out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

 

Stiles glared back over her shoulder.  Then, with a disgusted snort, she set off over the brick sidewalk toward the towering glass and marble palace.

 

 _I wonder what he’ll disguise himself as,_ Stiles wondered as motorcars chugged past her in a hurry.  The lazy gaiety of several weeks ago was gone as soldiers and citizens scurried along.  A chattering chorus of caws caught her attention.  She wrinkled her nose.  _Surely not a crow._

 

She entered the city square.  Here, more of the pageantry of the upper class citizens could be seen: men and women in silk and satin and fancy frippery promenading to display themselves and to see who was on display.  Soldiers stood at attention on guard duty at various points, decked out in bright green coats with gold tassels and blood red pants tucked into black boots.

 

She passed by a statue of some general or another seated on a horse.  Roosting atop the statue were several pigeons.

 

 _Far too common,_ she sneered.  _Derek’s too flamboyant to be a mere pigeon._

 

A personal flier plane zoomed overhead, then, with a military pilot at the helm while a giggling woman in a fancy yellow dress clutched at his shoulders.

 

Stiles smirked.  “ _That_ could be him.”

 

She entered the portcullis bearing the royal crest and the name of Los Angeles, with depictions of the palace to either side of the great brown grizzly striding over a strip of green grass, with red and white in the background.  Soldiers stood guard duty at points every five feet.  Stiles wondered if they were bored or in a permanent state of paranoia.  She knew if she’d been in those boots, she’d have been bored out of her mind ten minutes in.

 

Passing through, she found herself on the main path leading to the royal palace – that was still three-quarters of a mile away.   People walked the massive lawn to either side of the stone block walkway; clustered in groups, chattered and talked and flew away on the military demonstration fliers.

 

“Look how far I still have to go,” Stiles sighed.  She felt exhausted just looking at it.  She wondered if she could get on one of those fliers just to get a lift to the long flight of steps that would lead her up into the palace.

 

Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her resolve.  She curled her aching fingers around the head of her cane and strode off, determined to be something more than just a hurting old woman.

 

She’d just passed one of the demonstration fliers, ignoring the young soldier’s exhortations to step right up and take a flight, when she became aware of a wheezing noise coming from somewhere close to her.  For a moment, Stiles thought it was herself.  Then, hearing a faint clacking noise, she glanced down and found a shaggy old dog powering along, struggling to keep pace with her.

 

 _It can’t be_ , Stiles thought.  _But… it would certainly be different from his usual style.  And this dog is determined to stay with me._

 

Still, she had to ask; whispering, “Derek?  You disguised yourself as an _old dog?_ ”

 

A wheezing cough that tried to be a bark was the dog’s reply.

 

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” Stiles groaned.  “You’ve obviously never been old.  If you had been, you’d understand how _hard_ it is to do things in such a state!”

 

The dog let out a disgusted snort.

 

Stiles snorted right back.

 

Then, she gasped when she noticed two black-blob monster men walking beside her.  They were each at the end of a one-person palanquin, dressed in purple suits and gray top hats.  They ignored her, for which she was thankful.

 

Unfortunately, the person riding in the palanquin did not.

 

The silk curtain of the window in the door swept aside and a shark grin flashed out at Stiles from the Witch of the Waste’s face.

 

“Why,” she cooed, “if it isn’t the tacky girl from the hat shop!”

 

“Oh, not you!” Stiles snapped, irritated and faintly alarmed.

 

“Thank you for handing my scorching love note to _Howl_ ,” the Witch purred.  “How’s he doing, by the way?”

 

Stiles glared at her.  “He’s acting like a big baby, if you must have the truth.  And he’s working me to the bone as his cleaning lady!”

 

The Witch laughed, dark and mean.  “Wonderful!  Simply wonderful.  So, tell me: what business do you have here at the palace?”

 

“Job hunting,” Stiles replied tersely.  “I’m sick of working for Wizard Howl.  How about yourself?”

 

The smile that swept across the Witch’s face was frightening for all her beauty.

 

“ _I_ received a royal invitation!” she bragged.  “That idiot Royal Wizard has finally realized how much he needs me and my power.”

 

“Ha!” Stiles scoffed.  “If you’re so great, then why don’t you break the spell you put on me?  Do you have any idea what a _pain_ arthritis is?”

 

The Witch giggled with pleasure.  “I’m so sorry, dear girl – my talent lies in _casting_ spells, not breaking them.  ‘Bye, Granny.”

 

Stiles let out a scalded gasp and lifted her cane.  A sharp rap from the Witch to the roof of the palanquin as she closed the curtain again spurred her monsters into doubling their speed, leaving Stiles behind.

 

“You get back here, you bratty hag!” she shouted after the Witch, but was utterly ignored.  She cast a dark glare down at the dog.  “If I didn’t have you to worry about, I’d have _clobbered_ her!”

 

The strangest thing happened, though, when the palanquin passed through the final arch that led to the palace steps.  The wrought iron gate that matched the fencing to either side of the arch was wide open and soldiers were on duty at every point.  None of that seemed to matter as a hidden spell took effect and the Witch’s blob-men began losing their composure.  They lost cohesion, melting away to nothing, and the palanquin came to rest several feet away from the palace steps.

 

By the time Stiles caught up, the Witch had fought free of her conveyance and she was rather changed in appearance.  Instead of a slender young beauty, she appeared to be middle-aged and plain, and she was fatter than she’d looked only moments ago.

 

“Well,” Stiles murmured, taken aback, “maybe you _do_ know what a pain arthritis is.”

 

The Witch gave Stiles a disgusted glare even as she kicked at the melted monster closest to her.  “The hell is wrong with you idiots?!”

 

“Sorry, Ma’am!” yelled the fancy uniformed Royal Guard at the foot of the stairs.  “Nothing artificial and no vehicles beyond these gates!  You must continue on foot!”

 

The Witch curled her lip.  “That bastard!  Using his magic to force me to climb all those God-forsaken stairs!”

 

She pulled a vial from her cleavage and opened it, inhaling the pink perfumed smoke that wafted out.  She sneezed, and then wrapped her black, fur-trimmed cloak regally about herself and paraded toward the stairs.

 

“Surely _that_ must be breaking some rule or another,” Stiles muttered, following in her wake; “using a performance enhancing drug!”

 

“No one asked you!” the Witch snapped.

 

“Prerogative of being old, dearie,” she cooed at the other woman, “but then, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

 

“I should have turned you into a broken old wreck of a hat to be thrown onto a trash pile somewhere!”

 

Stiles gave her a sunny smile.  “How marvelous!  Eyesight tends to go in old age, but your hindsight is 20/20!”

 

The Witch let out a snarl and then began ascending the stairs.  It was a laborious process for her.  She was older, now, and despite the perfume she’d sniffed, whatever aid it gave her barely allowed her to lug her tremendously fat body up each step with a panting, guttural groan.

 

Stiles, also beginning the climb, moved only a little faster but with just as much groaning.  She hurt _so damned much!_

 

She’d gotten ahead of the Witch when she heard frantic, wheezing whining coming from behind her.  She turned, and there was the old dog with his snout barely peeking up over the top of one big stone step.  She very nearly snapped at Derek to hurry on up, but then she glanced at the Witch and decided to keep her mouth shut as she scooted back down the stairs.

 

“Come on,” she sighed, and lifted the dog up to the step before following him up with a groan.

 

It was a race between the two slowest people in the world.  The soldiers lining the balustrade to either side of the stairs watched their progress but made no move to help either the Witch or the old woman with the dog.

 

Stiles passed the Witch, now disheveled and disgusting with sweat.   Seeing her go past, the Witch husked out, “Wait!  Stop… wait.  Help!  I can’t make it!”

 

“What’d you say, dearie?” Stiles asked, panting.  She glanced back over her shoulder.  “You suddenly recalled how to break this spell?”

 

“I _told_ you,” the Witch groaned.  “I _can’t!_   I don’t know _how_.”

 

“Then start studying!” Stiles shouted.  “You’re never too old to learn new tricks!  Take it from me: I _know_.”

 

With that, she turned her back on the other woman and hefted herself and the dog toward the landing at the top of the stairs. 

 

The stairs to the palace were sectioned off with landings every ten steps.  Halfway up, at a three-story flight, Stiles had no choice but to stop and rest.  Hearing the Witch groaning desperately, she turned and watched her finally reach the second-story landing.

 

“Just… just give up!” she called, struggling against her own lack of air.  “You’re killing yourself!”

 

The Witch lifted her head to glare at Stiles.  Her once-brown, now steel-gray hair dripped down her face in straggles from the neat coiffure she’d had it pinned in under her hat.  Her skin was slick with sweat, her make-up running, and her clothes clung to her body.

 

“I’ve waited,” she growled through sucking lungfuls of breath, “for fifty years… to be… invited… ever since the Royal Wizard… banished me… to the live… in the Wastes!”

 

“Ah,” Stiles replied, nodding sagely.  “Well, good luck, then!  Too bad I’m not younger, or I’d lend you a hand!”  She turned and bent, holding out her hands to the dog.  “Come along!”

 

The dog came to her and once again, they were on the move toward the top landing of the palace stairs.

 

“Cold-hearted… old… _hag_ ,” the Witch gasped after her.  “Next time… I’ll turn you… senile… too!”

 

Stiles ignored her and kept climbing.

 

When she arrived at the top, she let the dog go with a groan of relief and straightened her aching back.  The rippling, grinding crack her spine made as she moved made her wince.  She turned and looked out over the mountain top-like view from the top of the stairs; saw the royal grounds and city spread out below her, pretty as a postcard.  She breathed, feeling her heart and lungs reduce in strain, and then focused on the Witch several steps below her, having stopped to catch a much-needed breath.  Seeing her honest struggle, Stiles suddenly felt bad.  The betrayal of a body’s refusal to work the way you needed it to was a pain she wouldn’t wish on anyone.  The Witch, for all her wickedness, was in true danger of failing due to ill health.

 

“Almost there!” she encouraged the Witch.  “You can do it!”

 

Hearing heeled shoes clicking to a halt behind her, Stiles turned and found a butler in fancy lace and silk standing a few feet away.  The man had a very affected air about him, indicating that everyone and everything within sight of him was somehow beneath him though _he_ was the servant.

 

“Welcome to the palace,” the man simpered, though his gaze was cold.  “I am here to provide you aid, Honored Guest.”

 

“If you want to help, then help her!” Stiles gestured at the Witch.  “She needs the help!”

 

The butler glanced at the Witch.  “I am strictly forbidden to offer such assistance.”  He offered a little dip of his knees and a flick of his hands; a curtsey of courtesy to take the edge off his implied disdain.

 

“Rude!” Stiles chided.  “The King himself invited her!”

 

The butler lifted a perfectly groomed eyebrow and said nothing.

 

Stiles harrumphed and turned back to the Witch, now on the last leg of the journey.  “Come on!  Let’s go!  Don’t stop now – you’re so close!  Are you a witch or aren’t you?”

 

She goaded and chivvied the Witch until, finally, she powered up the last few steps and nearly collapsed in a groaning heap at the top.

 

“…shut…up…” the Witch gasped weakly.

 

Stiles kept the other woman upright with a grip on her arm, and then wiped her hands on her dress when the Witch was steady again.  Then, Stiles gave the Witch her cane since she needed it more than Stiles did.  The Witch eyed her askance, but said nothing.

 

“Honored Guests,” the butler murmured, dipping his knees again, “please follow me.”

 

He turned with a neat whirl of motion and led the way to the court doors.

 

As the two old people stepped into the long court hall where courtiers and officials milled around, the receiving line of butlers on either side of the walkway snapped to attention.

 

“Mrs. Wulfric,” the butler announced to the California Court, “and the Witch of the Waste!”

 

 _Now, how did he know that?_ Stiles wondered.  She hadn’t handed over the invitation and she’d not told anyone she was supposed to be Wizard Wulfric’s grandmother.  The feeling of doom that she’d started out with intensified, but she’d come too far to turn back now.

 

Stiles wanted to sigh at the softness of the red velvet carpet beneath her shoes.  She glanced over and saw the Witch of the Waste slumped and stumbling as she moved.  She looked a frightful wreck and stank of the sweat she’d worked up.

 

“Pull yourself together,” Stiles chided.  “Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?  Show a little pride!”

 

“Hang… pride,” the Witch rasped.  “I’d give… anything… for a chair right now.”

 

Stiles snorted a laugh.  “I’ve been there.  Well, come along.  The sooner we go, the sooner we’re there.”

 

Together, they walked sedately along the red carpet, attempting to give the impression that they chose to move in a slow, regal manner – and not because their old bones demanded the concession of speed.  The old dog kept pace with them, his tail wagging as he wheezed his way along.

 

Halfway down the red carpet, another butler announced them yet again: “Mrs. Wulfric and the Witch of the Waste!”

 

“Your… your name is… Wulfric?” the Witch muttered, stumbling over her words.  “Where have I heard the name before?”

 

In a cold voice, Stiles retorted, “It was the name of my _tacky little hat shop_ – don’t you remember?”

 

“Is that what it was?  I thought it was… something else.”

 

A footman greeted them at the end of the carpet.  He bowed and said, “Follow me, please.”

 

They did so and they were led to a room furnished with ornate carpets, magnificent tapestries, and mirrors framed in filigreed gold.  Golden chandeliers and wall sconces contained several lit tapers.  Ruched crimson curtains hung at three points in the room – one of which faced a single armchair upholstered in gold and ivory brocade.

 

“A chair!” the Witch cried.  “It’s mine!”

 

With that, she summoned the energy to lurch into a stumbling run toward the chair.  She gained the seat and slumped into it with an exhausted, agonized groan, her eyes closing.

 

Stiles winced as she watched her.  Truthfully, she didn’t feel as bad or as heavy as she had when she’d first started out from Wizard Howl’s castle.  Seeing the Witch in such a state made her recall how it had felt and, to her own surprise, Stiles felt terrible for her.  She’d done Stiles and many others such wrong, but the pain she was in now provoked such sympathy in Stiles that she wanted to coddle the Witch and reassure her it would be alright.

 

 _Get hold of yourself_ , Stiles admonished herself.  _She’s the enemy.  She’d do you in if it meant getting her greedy hands on Derek!_

 

At that, she recalled the dog.  Glancing around, she saw that the curtain to the left had risen silently and the dog disappeared through the doorway revealed with a wheezing bark.

 

“Get back here!” Stiles hissed, and hurried after him. 

 

She found herself in a hallway paneled with dark brown repeating wallpaper and a floor tiled with mosaics.  She looked down the hallway, wondering if she dared to go after the dog, and then reconsidered leaving the Witch unsupervised.  She turned – and gasped as a hidden door opened soundlessly to reveal a bright interior behind it.  In the doorway stood a pageboy in a pale yellow uniform and blond hair in the traditional cut.

 

The youth bowed slightly and held his hand out to the side.  “This way, please, Ma’am.”

 

Realizing the page had been sent to fetch her, Stiles swallowed down her worry and stepped through the doorway.  The door slid shut behind her.

 

In doing so, she never saw – or heard – the strange light that brought to life shadow demons dancing a circle around the Witch of the Waste and her subsequent agonized screams.

 

In the quiet, dim, richly decorated hallway, Stiles followed the steady pace of the page boy.  She walked straight and tall and it didn’t hurt her.  She felt… lighter, somehow; almost her old self again, except for the nagging ache in her hips and shoulders and hands.  The weight of wrinkles on her face sagged downward, so she knew she couldn’t possibly be lighter, but it was a wonderful illusion to move with a little more grace.

 

They emerged into an atrium filled with tropical trees and plants; flowers and shrubs.  The green of the vegetation was a beautiful counterpoint to the silver-blue steel and crystal-clear glass of the atrium’s architecture.  Colorful flowers in scarlets and oranges and yellows added counterpoints here and there.  The sound of decorative fountains and birds chirping filled the air.

 

Ahead of them, in the bright light of sunlight, sat a man in a wheeled chair.  Three officials stood before him, receiving instructions, and bowed as the meeting was finished and they were dismissed.  They walked past Stiles with cordial nods, who returned the greeting and then waited to be noticed.

 

The page that had led Stiles to the atrium went around the ornate wheeled chair and waited for the Royal Wizard to sign something in a book before closing it, bowing, and walking away – leaving the two people alone.

 

Clutching a gnarled wood staff, the wizard turned his head to look at Stiles.  She gasped at the sight of a half-scarred face; so badly scarred on the right side from hairline to throat that it looked as if his skin had melted and fused together in streaks and lumps.  Sardonic blue eyes watched her with cold, calculating amusement.  Dark brown hair was coiffed and slicked back from his face, refusing to cover the twisted mess of his face.  His crimson robe was of the finest velvet and trimmed with spotted rabbit fur and cloth-of-gold.  A heavy gold necklace draped around the lifted collar of his robe, adorned with large dark blue jewels.  Confined to a chair, scarred, the Royal Wizard gave the impression of immense power and a sense of danger.

 

Stiles felt that same sensation as when she’d first met Derek: that she was cornered by a wolf.  She hadn’t worried then.

 

She worried now.

 

The wizard’s blue eyes were sharp and wary even as he gave a warm, welcoming smile that gave Stiles the impression she’d stepped into a trap.

 

“So,” he murmured, “you’re Howl’s grandmother, are you?”

 

Stiles lifted her chin, firming her resolve.  This was doomed to failure, but she’d try.  For Derek – who had done a lot for her since rescuing her and then taking her in; for a man who’d suffered enough cruelty for one lifetime – she’d try.

 

“Yes,” she agreed.  “I’m Mrs. Wulfric.”

 

“You must be tired,” the wizard said, his voice low and soothing.  He gestured to the armless, decorative chair settled a few feet across from him.  “Please, have a seat.”

 

“Thank you,” she answered, minding her manners, and took a seat in the straight-backed chair that was covered in the same gold-and-ivory fabric as the chair the Witch had claimed.  The gilding and the legs were painted gold to go with; or, Stiles assumed they were painted.  If it was real gold, she might very well quail at having to sit on a piece of furniture that was worth more than she’d ever earned in her life as a hatter.

 

“I am Sir Peter Hale,” the stately man said to Stiles.  “I am His Majesty’s head sorcerer.”

 

Stiles went rigid with shock.  “ _Hale?_ ”

 

She looked at the scars mottling the entire right half of his face and felt the puzzle pieces click into place.  This was Derek’s crippled uncle; one of three initial survivors of the Hale house fire and the man who had trained Derek in magical ability until Derek had run from him.

 

 _But if he knew his uncle is the Royal Wizard, then how could he send me into this?_ Stiles thought frantically.  _Is he coming for me?  Or will he cut and run, leaving me to my fate?_

 

Additionally, the way Peter Hale stared at her and the way he spoke let Stiles know immediately that though Finstock held the title of King, it was truly Peter Hale who was the head of state in California.  Whatever Finstock’s title, it was Hale who called the shots.

 

All of those thoughts flew from Stiles’ head when she glanced down and saw the old dog lying flopped beneath the tall table beside Hale’s wheeled chair.

 

“That… that’s not _your_ dog, is it?” she asked, meeting Hale’s gaze with alarm.

 

An amused little smile curled his lips.  “His name is Deaton.  He’s my errand dog.  I sent him to escort you to the palace.”

 

Stiles let out a sighing groan and closed her eyes.

 

“I take it _Howl_ won’t be joining us?”

 

She opened her eyes at the knowing tone in Hale’s voice.  The smile had grown; smug and sardonic, and there was a faint crackling sensation of electricity in the air.

 

Stiles stared at him and realized this man was far too used to being catered to, _submitted_ to – so much like the Witch of the Wastes.

 

 _What’s good for one goose is good for another_ , she thought to herself, and smirked back.

 

Peter Hale blinked at her.

 

“He’s such a lazy boy, that grandson of mine,” Stiles said, playing her part in spite of its pointlessness.  She was doomed anyway – she might as well go down swinging.  “So lazy, he sent an elderly woman to give his regrets!  I’m afraid the king would find him completely useless.  The fact is, all Howl’s magic is good for is tarting himself up and playing petty games.”

 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Hale murmured.  “Howl was the last apprentice I ever took on.  I’d never seen such a gifted student; such a bright young man.  I was so thrilled to finally have found someone talented enough to replace me.  Then, one day, his heart was stolen away by someone more powerful than I – but then again, few things are more powerful than a demon.  He never returned to complete his apprenticeship.  It is, as you said then: since that day, he’s been using his magic for entirely selfish and self-centered reasons.”

 

The two of them sat in silence, contemplating one another.

 

“Mrs. Wulfric,” Hale said, his voice firm, his tone hard.

 

“Yes?” Stiles drawled.

 

“That boy is far too dangerous,” Hale snapped, leaning forward a little.  “His powers are far too great for someone without a heart.”

 

Stiles frowned.

 

“If he _stays_ selfish, I’m afraid he’ll end up just like the former Witch of the Waste.”

 

She blinked, startled.  “Excuse me – did you just say ‘former’?”

 

Hale gestured to the doorway Stiles had been brought through.  She glanced over and then lurched to her feet with a shocked gasp at the sight of the blond page boy pushing a wheeled trolley into the atrium.  Atop the trolley’s platform sat a hunched old crone that stared sightlessly in a state of shock from the folds of her black cape and wide-brimmed hat.  Her hair was gone entirely; her jowly face was a monstrosity of injury: her lips gone so her teeth were permanently bared, her nose a wasted stub, and grotesque claw scars that dragged across her face from upper left to lower right.  The dazed Witch breathed heavily through a slack-jawed and drooling mouth.  She looked _mauled_ and Stiles’ stomach lurched with the need to vomit. 

 

Stiles bent, reaching to take hold of her shoulder.  “What on earth happened to you?!”

 

The Witch said nothing, still in shock.

 

“I happened to her,” Hale declared, his voice strong and unpleasantly smug.  “I returned Jennifer to her true appearance.  All of her powers are gone, now – stripped away so she may do no harm to those she perceives as a threat or for her own insipid plans.  She’s nothing more now than a harmless old woman.”

 

Stiles stared at Hale in horror as she sank back into the chair.  “A little _drastic_ , don’t you think?”

 

Hale smirked.  “She _did_ say she’d given _anything_ for a chair to sit in.”

 

Stiles trembled; furious and terrified all at once.

 

“Besides,” Peter murmured, “she was causing all sorts of grief for my beloved nephew.  I couldn’t very well let her continue to distress Derek, now could I?”

 

Stiles closed her eyes on a wince.

 

“Once,” said Peter, “Jennifer was a sorcerer tied to a werewolf Pack.  She was known as an Emissary; the powerful representative that would speak for her Pack at conclaves and negotiations.  And then, she was brutally attacked by her Alpha.  You see, a group of Alphas had decided that the best way to gain immense power was by killing every member of their Packs – including their Emissaries.  Jennifer, who was actually Julia Baccari at the time, survived the attack on her and set about gaining power and knowledge to exact her revenge on those who had wronged her.  She, too, fell prey to a demon; not one of _fire_ , but of greed.  It consumed her heart and, in exchange, gave her the means to take her vengeance on the woman that hurt her.  It also gave her a craving for hearts and only the best of the best.”

 

Peter smirked a sly expression at Stiles.  “The heart is the seat of a sorcerer’s power, you see – and Derek’s heart is a powerful thing, indeed.  It’s full of passion and good intentions, compassion and civic duty; the need to protect those within his territory despite his immense cowardice.  You can see why Jennifer would want it - a heart that strong to go with a man so beautiful?  But she could never fully appreciate Derek; never really love him.  Her demon consumed her, body and soul, until all that remained was this: an ugly, bitter hag.  She was far too dangerous and so I sent her away until I could deal with her.  The fire that killed my family while I was visiting them delayed me for a while, but Jennifer can no longer harm anyone ever again.”

 

Stiles made a pitiful sound and stroked the cape covering Jennifer’s back.

 

“Our kingdom can longer afford to turn a blind eye to these disreputable witches and wizards,” Hale said, changing topics.  His voice hardened.  “If Howl – as Derek so chooses to call himself – reports to me, and vows to use his magic to serve his kingdom, I will show him how to break from his demon.”

 

Stiles stared at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

Hale met her gaze.  “If not, I’ll strip him of all his powers – just like _her_.”

 

Furious, she powered up onto her feet.  “That is _enough!_ ”

 

Deaton flinched, his doggy eyes going wide as someone dared to bellow at his master.

 

“Now I understand why Derek was so concerned about coming to see you,” Stiles snapped.  “A training master is someone who should be trusted – but he doesn’t trust you a bit!  And you’re _family_ to boot!  You of all people should be the one person he can trust, but you are the one he needs protecting from most!”

 

Hale watched her with a little smile on his face.

 

Stiles snorted.  “Speaking of disreputable wizards!  This…?  This is a _trap!_   You _lure_ people here, you despicable spider!  You lure them into your web with what appears to be an invitation from California’s king, and then you determine that _you_ have the right to take their powers from them just because you don’t agree with what’s done with them!  How selfish!  How treacherous!  How _heartless!_   Derek would never do this!  Whatever his failings, the Wizard Howl would never be so _heartless_.  He’s selfish and cowardly, juvenile, and sometimes he’s hard to understand – but his intentions are good!  He has power, yes, but he intends no harm with it!  Derek won’t come here.  He doesn’t need _your_ help!  He can fix his problems on his own!”

 

As she chastised the most powerful sorcerer in the realm, Stiles was unaware of the life she was giving herself with the passion of her speech.  She didn’t notice her wrinkles stretching out to form smooth skin, the age spots disappearing.  She didn’t notice her body becoming trim and slender; long and graceful and sturdy.  She didn’t notice her hair growing back in and darkening to the honey-brown it was supposed to be.  Her brown eyes gleamed from healthy sockets and her limbs and bones were strong again – as strong as her voice.

 

Hale smiled.  “I see: you’re in love with Derek.”

 

In an instant, Stiles recoiled into old age as her confidence deserted her.

 

The Witch – Jennifer – came alive then.  She clutched and clawed at Stiles’ dress as, with a wheezy old voice, she rasped, “Howl?  Did I hear you say Howl’s coming?  Where is he?  Where is that beautiful man?  His heart!  I want his heart!  It belongs to me!”

 

She cried so hard in her desperation that she fell off the trolley, kept upright only by her grip on Stiles’ dress.

 

“Stop blubbering!” Stiles snapped, anxious and out-of-sorts.  She bent to catch hold of Jennifer’s shoulders.  “Howl isn’t coming here, alright?”

 

Hale glanced to the side, watching through the glass of the atrium door as a personal flier with a tall, dark-haired man landed neatly in the private lawn outside.

 

“Oh,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.  I now know his weakness… Mrs. Wulfric.”

 

King Finstock strode through the glass door held open by the blond page boy, who bowed as he walked past.  His spine was straight and his bearing regal as he walked with graceful precision.  His black hair stood up in a wild thatch of locks and he looked a little wild around the eyes as well, giving the impression of cynical exuberance.  His uniform was made of brilliant green in the coat, belted with white that matched his white pants striped down the sides in blood red.  Red and gold cuffs adorned the jacket, gold buttons closed it, and a red and gold collar cuddled up around his neck with gold bear pins attached to it.  A green, red, and gold visor cap with goggles adorned his head, and black polished boots covered him from the knees down.  He was striking in looks and bearing.

 

“Your Majesty,” Hale murmured, bowing his head.  His tone was one of barely subtle amusement.

 

“As you were,” Finstock dismissed.  He faced the crippled man, one fist against his hip.  “So, then – how are you feeling?”

 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Peter replied cordially.

 

“Thought I’d drop by,” Finstock explained, “rather than sit through another boring war meeting.”

 

“What an honor,” Hale purred.

 

Finstock turned to look at Stiles and the Witch.  “Who are your guests?”

 

“This is Howl’s grandmother – Mrs. Wulfric.”

 

Finstock turned fully to face Stiles, who tensed up as the king approached before recalling her manners and curtseying to her king.

 

Finstock tucked his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at the old woman before him, completely disregarding the scarred old woman crouched down at her side.

 

“Thanks for coming,” he murmured, staring intently at Stiles.

 

Stiles frowned a little.  The king was being far too familiar with a citizen he’d never met before.

 

Or… had he?

 

“I’ve decided to not use magic to win this war,” the king said, and Stiles’ eyes widened.  In an instant, she _knew_.  “We have _tried_ using Wizard Hale’s magic to shield the palace from enemy bombs.  But the bombs fall on civilian homes instead.  That’s the problem with magic: if it gives something, it must take something else away.  Isn’t that right, Peter?”

 

Hale _smiled_.  “You’re so _eloquent_ today, Your Majesty.”

 

Abruptly, they were joined by _another_ Finstock, who came striding into the atrium yelling, “ _Peeeeeeeeeeeeee-ter!_ ”

 

Stiles tensed and began shaking.  The man beside her put a hand on her back in a comforting gesture.  She wanted to punch him and hug him all at once.  He hadn’t abandoned her; he’d come for her, as promised, but the danger they were all in was too incredible by far.

 

“Peter!  I’ve drafted a new plan that will rely heavily on targeting spells as pointed by those line thingies you use!”  Finstock chortled.  “If I’m right, we can carpet bomb along those paths and Oregon’s wizards will be too busy to take on our troops as we move forward.  They’ll never know what hit ‘em!”

 

The King of California abruptly noticed the look-a-like standing beside two old people.  He narrowed his gaze, considering, and then burst into raucous laughter.

 

“That’s the best double you’ve made of me yet!” he crowed.  “The last one was good enough to fool the Oregon assassins, too, though.  Let’s hope _this_ one lasts a little longer!”

 

“Your Majesty,” Hale murmured, bowing his head.

 

Finstock turned headed back toward the door he’d emerged from.  A uniformed officer stood at attention at the end of the garden path.

 

“Get my generals assembled!” the king snapped, striding past the officer.

 

“Sir!” the officer agreed, saluting, and turned to follow his leader back into the palace proper.

 

The door slid shut and the people in the atrium all turned their attention on each other in silence that lasted for a few minutes.

 

Finally, Hale purred, “So good to see you again… Howl.  That _is_ what you’re calling yourself these days… isn’t it, Derek?”

 

“Finstock” bowed politely to him.  “You’re looking well, Uncle.”

 

“Rather a weak disguise,” Peter shot back.  “Didn’t I teach you any better?”

 

The Finstock disguise faded away and Derek Hale was the man in the uniform.  His hair had been treated with product and now fluffed up in ridiculous spikes that stuck out from beneath the visor cap.  His ears were slightly pointy and emerald jewels dangled from the lobes.

 

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders.  She gasped at the heat of the man pressed up against her.

 

“I knew going into this you wouldn’t be outwitted, Uncle.  I kept my oath; I reported after being summoned,” Derek explained with a grin.  “Now, ‘Grandmother’ and I will go.”

 

Peter smiled at him.

 

“I’m afraid not,” he said in a kindly tone.

 

And stood up.

 

He climbed up out of the chair and stood, tall and strong, kicking the chair away from him with such strength that it zoomed across the atrium and smashed to pieces against a fountain.

 

“You must be Stiles,” Peter murmured to the upright old woman.  He smiled.  “Despite what my nephew believes, I _have_ been keeping track of his life and the people in it.  Amazing how one woman has annoyed him so dreadfully and yet, he’ll do anything to keep you safe.  He fusses over you so, Stiles.  If only he had such concern for his _family_.”

 

“You were going to _use_ me for your own reasons,” Derek growled, his ears getting pointier and his teeth beginning to sharpen.  “You always did, Peter, even when I was a child.  You’ve always been a manipulator and you didn’t balk at manipulating _family_ , so cut the bullshit.”

 

“How _is_ your littlest sister?” Peter taunted.  “It’s been six years since I’ve been able to account for her – and I’m not fond of things unaccounted.”

 

“You’re not fond of anything except yourself,” Derek retorted.  “Everything you’ve ever done has been to make sure you come out on top.”

 

“Why, Nephew, you speak truer than you know,” Peter growled.

 

Abruptly, his skin cleared of scars, leaving him fully healthy and beautiful.  Stiles blinked, and then blinked again as his eyes glowed red.

 

Derek sucked in a shocked breath.  “No.”

 

Peter grinned at the younger man with a mouth full of pointy teeth.  “Oh, _yes_.  Laura never saw it coming, if that helps at all.  I do regret having to kill my own niece, but she had what I needed to see to it that Argent paid.  _You_ wouldn’t do anything about it.  You were too _cowardly_ to gut the bitch – so I did what had to be done.”

 

“It was _you_ ,” Derek said, and his voice cracked with grief.  “ _You_ tore Laura in half!”

 

“And tore out Kate Argent’s throat, yes,” Peter agreed.  “If only you’d been man enough – _wolf_ enough – to do it, you could have spared Laura.”

 

“That’s a lie,” Stiles opined, her voice quavering.  “You were going to take the power anyway.  Derek’s honest fear of a murdering child molester was just a convenient excuse!”

 

“Ah,” Peter murmured, looking at Stiles.  Derek shifted to block his gaze as much as possible.  “And now we hear from the little seamstress in defense of her _employer_.  What’ll you do, dear?  Prick the truth out of me with your sewing needles?”

 

“Or sew your dirty rotten mouth _shut_ ,” she snapped.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Peter said, and his voice was suddenly bass, guttural.  He began growing, larger and larger, his clothing shredding off of him as his skin turned gray and became coated in black fur.  His face morphed into a monstrous snout full of fangs and red eyes.  “I’d love to see you _try!_ ”

 

With that, he leaped toward her – but Derek met him head-on, shifted and furious.

 

The two werewolves clashed in a vicious tangle of fangs and claws.  Derek’s uniform quickly shredded as Peter slashed at him, but he gave back as good as he got.

 

Stiles caught hold of Jennifer and dragged the other woman several yards away, getting them hidden in a dense thicket of foliage.  There was very little else she could do, but at least it was something!

 

Jennifer suddenly caught hold of her, yanking her down so they were nearly nose-to-nose.

 

“You have the gift of gab,” Jennifer rasped.  Stiles shuddered at the sight of Jennifer’s ruined face flexing as she spoke.  “I sensed it when I came to your tacky little hat shop.  Every hat there that _you_ made shone with a special quality.  You talked to them, didn’t you?  You told them they would be beautiful, make their wearers beautiful, would be the best hats _ever_ – didn’t you?”

 

Stiles gawped.  “I – yes!  I did!  How—?”

 

“I _sensed_ it.  You’re a witch with a specific power, Stiles – a _spark_.  You can talk life into things, you can make whatever you want to happen by _believing_ in it!  You believe, you talk, and suddenly the thing happens!”

 

“That is _ridiculous!_ ”

 

“Maybe, but you _know_ it works!  How many times have you willfully ignored a thing happening that you had spoken of only when no one could hear you?”

 

Stiles flinched.

 

“Derek will _lose_ ,” Jennifer hissed.  “He will _lose_ this fight and he will _die_ if you don’t speak up for him now!”

 

Stiles shuddered and looked to where the two werewolves were locked in combat.  Derek was failing against the bigger, stronger, more vicious monster.  He was slashed in dozens of places, leaking blood at an alarming rate.  He was less fighting, now, and more doing his best to dodge Peter’s strikes, staggering whenever a hit landed.

 

Stiles glanced at Jennifer, intending to ask another question, but her face had gone blank again in a soft, confused way.  Whatever had been done to her had diminished her mental capacity.  She’d surfaced long enough to give Stiles advice, and now she was gone under again.

 

Seeing that she was the only thing left to help Derek, Stiles knew she had no choice but to give it her best shot.

 

“You… you can survive this,” she murmured, staring at Derek.  “You’re the Great Wizard _Howl_.  You learned – you learned everything you needed to survive and you’ll do it now!”

 

“ _SILENCE!_ ” Peter roared, and tore a heavy marble fountain up from the floor to hurl at the two women.

 

Derek flicked his hand and the fountain sailed over Stiles and Jennifer to crash against a wall far behind them.  Then, while Peter was distracted, he balled up his fist as it glowed with power and _punched_.  Peter hurtled backwards with an aggrieved howl, crashing and sliding amidst the debris they’d generated with their fight.

 

“Ha!” Stiles crowed, her confidence rising.  “See what you just did?  You can do it again!  And again and again!  You will _win this_ , Derek!  Laura didn’t deserve what he did to her; he had no right to take justice away from you!  You know that!  You know it and you won’t stand for it.  You’ll win this for Laura and for yourself!”

 

Howling, Derek surged forward after his uncle.

 

Peter leaped away to a better position.  In doing so, he came to where his staff had fallen.  Snatching it up, he howled and unleashed his attack.

 

He slammed the base of the staff against the floor even as Derek leaped to stand beside Stiles.  He wrapped his arm protectively around her while Jennifer clung mightily to Stiles’ left arm.  At the strike of Peter’s staff, a small portal opened to reveal a field of stars and then closed.  From the strike point emerged a gout of flame; brilliant gold-orange, flickering with blue and red.  It washed toward the three of them in a blast of light and heat.

 

Stiles whimpered in alarm, but Derek stood beside her with his arm still around her shoulders and a grim look on his face.  The fire washed over them with a roar of sound, engulfed them.  Stiles realized the fire was merely an illusion and did not actually have an effect on them.  She could still breathe and the horrifying, intense heat faded within moments, leaving her happily unburnt.  Whether that was Derek’s doing or her own distrust of Hale was hard to say.

 

The fire vanished and a cold wind swept over them instead as they seemingly appeared a few miles above a lush, green forest with a blue ribbon of water snaking below them.  The light of a setting sun glinted off of high altitude scud clouds, turning the world gold and dark blue around them.  Jennifer’s hat blew away and her cape flapped out behind her.  She shrieked as she slid down the length of Stiles’ body, clutching desperately at her skirt, and Stiles wondered why the former witch was so affected by the illusion.

 

Derek kept Stiles facing forward as he murmured, “Don’t look down.  If you do, the illusion will take you and you’ll be lost.”

 

 _She must have looked down_ , Stiles thought, and strained to keep staring at the black-furred monster facing them.

 

Peter’s blunt snout in his mostly human-shaped face managed a twisted and cold smile.  “She thinks you’re so beautiful, so noble!  What a crock _that_ is!  It’s time to show your ‘grandmother’ what you _really_ are – _Howl_.”

 

From the depths of space above them, a star fell down from the heavens.  Another fell, and another – the brilliant sparks of light falling all around them, bursting apart in a shower of multi-colored fireworks and celestial chiming.

 

More stars came down and formed a ring around them.  From those glittering sparks formed bodies of light – and from those bodies spread long, spindly shadows.  The lights and shadows whirled around them as the stars sang a chanting choir in a language Stiles did not know, but made Derek tense with a growl.

 

The first indication that Stiles had that something was wrong was when the white glove on Derek’s left hand ripped open and a monstrous hand, adorned in black fur and sporting vicious claws, dug bruises into her lanky old arm.  She let out a frightened cry and looked up to see Derek’s face and neck morphing.  Black fur sprouted and his mouth opened on a terrible scream, revealing terrifyingly sharp teeth as his head began to take the form of a wolf’s.  His boots burst apart to reveal black-furred legs and clawed wolf’s feet.  The surprise, though, were the big black wings that burst from his back, prompting a more agonized scream.

 

“But wolves don’t have wings!” Stiles blurted, stunned at the sight.

 

Peter’s ephemeral, human form appeared.  He was naked, his clothes still gone, but once more in human skin.  He lifted his gnarled, wooden staff that turned into a glimmering shaft of fire.  Realization slammed into place in Stiles’ mind.  She turned to face Derek and covered his eyes as she shouted, “Stop, Derek!  The illusion has you!  It’s a _trap!_ ”

 

Derek jerked his head hard enough to break Stiles’ grip on his face.  He saw the attack coming and _leapt_ , beating his wings and sending himself, Stiles, and Jennifer soaring up out of the way of Peter’s fire bolt.

 

He tossed the women into a nearby tree, ignoring their screams of fright.  Peter, expecting Derek to have fled with the women in tow, was startled enough to watch their shrieking descent into the trees.

 

That was how Derek’s firebomb caught him by surprise.

 

Peter was blasted backward, screaming in agony as his flesh charred and cracked.  He slammed into the last marble fountain in the atrium, breaking it to pieces, and steam hissed and snapped as it rose from his badly burnt body when the cool water washed over him.

 

He was yanked out of the rubble to lie broken and burnt on the floor as Derek straddled him.

 

He looked up, met Derek’s furious gaze, and laughed as he said, “Kicking me while I’m already down?  Derek, that’s so _heartless_ of you!”

 

The laughter faded on a gurgling groan as Derek’s claws slashed across his throat.  They tore through skin and bone and veins, destroying Peter’s throat in one swipe.  Arterial blood sprayed and Peter jerked, shuddering.  The light faded from his eyes and he twitched once, twice, and then went still as life left him.

 

Derek threw back his head and _howled_ with such ferocity that the glass cage of the atrium rattled and cracked.

 

“ _Derek!_ ” Stiles shrieked as the branch she and Jennifer had been perched on began to splinter beneath their combined weight.

 

Derek whirled and leaped for them.  He caught the two women before they could hit the ground and then leaped upwards, his wings beating strongly and carried them up to the glass dome ceiling of the atrium.

 

The wolf features and wings receded from Derek as he held Stiles and Jennifer, guiding their descent down to the personal flier he’d arrived on.  It was a two-seater, as most personal fliers were; one for the pilot and one for a passenger.  Both old people were slammed into the passenger seat, Stiles uncomfortably stuffed onto Jennifer’s broad, fat lap and clinging to the metal frame of the pilot’s chair.

 

“Hold on,” Derek ordered, and reached past the chair to grab the little ship’s wheel that served as the navigation drive.  He tugged the yoke toward the pilot’s chair and the oar propellers flapped to life, lifting the lighter-than-air craft off the ground.

 

Abruptly, Deaton appeared – his big, droopy ears flapping to give him his own lift, flying up to meet them.  He pulled ahead and then let his ears go limp, sliding past Stiles to land with a thump between the two old people.  His back was against Stiles’ and he glared at the ugly, old ex-witch who stared in surprise at the animal in her lap.

 

Derek, standing along the fuselage and still piloting the flier, called out, “Stiles!  Sit up here!”

 

Carefully, Stiles climbed off of Jennifer’s lap and made her way around the pilot’s chair.  The high-speed wind as they flew over the city rushed over her, chilling her to the bone.  Silk may look all fine and dandy, but it did screw all to keep her warm during an escape flight!

 

“Did you _have_ to bring those two with you?” Derek complained.

 

Stiles glanced over her shoulder and saw a Jennifer looking at Deaton with a fond expression on her mauled face.  She had herself and Deaton tucked into her fur-trimmed cape.

 

“Nice doggy,” she murmured, and Deaton squeaked out a wheezing bark.

 

Stiles gave the dog a cold glare.  “Hmph!  I can’t believe you work for _Peter Hale_.  You’re probably a wizard he decided wasn’t good enough, too!”

 

Deaton squeaked another bark.

 

Seeing how high up they were, she sighed.  “I guess it’s too late to toss him.”

 

“A little bit,” Derek agreed.  “Now, Stiles – take the wheel!”

 

“Are you out of your pointy-eared mind?!” she shouted.  “I’m not a pilot!  I can’t fly!”

 

“They’re gaining on us!” he snapped back.

 

Stiles’ eyes widened, watering as the cold wind sliced at them.  She twisted to look behind them and, sure enough, more fliers had launched with Californian military personnel aboard: a pilot and a soldier with a rifle on each of the fifteen aircraft speeding after them.

 

“We’ve got more weight than they do,” Derek added.  “We’re moving slower!  I need you to take the wheel so I can concentrate!”

 

She latched onto the wheel, but he continued to hold it in response to her inexperienced handling.

 

“We’re gonna die!” she whined.  “We’re going to go down in flames!”

 

“Stiles,” Derek chided.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Stiles replied, her tone snide.  “I mean: we’re going to soar; up, up and away, to a land of rainbows and sunshine and ponies!  I always get the two confused.”

 

He laughed.  “You don’t have to worry!  I’m here with you!”

 

“Yayyyyy – faint hope.”

 

He rolled his eyes.  “I’ll distract them; then, you can fly back to my castle in the Wastes.”

 

“ _How?_ ” Stiles shouted.  “If this thing has a handy-dandy compass on it, I can’t see it!  And without one, I don’t know the way from _a billion feet up in the air_.”

 

“It’s only 1500 feet, not a billion.”

 

“ _Derek!_ ”

 

He smirked.  “The ring I gave you will guide you back home.  All you have to do is think of Coralcifer and really, _really_ want to be where she is.”

 

“Teleportation?!” Stiles gasped excitedly.

 

Derek shook his head.  “A guiding beacon; sorry.  If I use a teleportation spell, Peter can track the entry and exit points and we’re done for.  The castle is unplottable not _just_ against the Witch of the Wastes, you know.”

 

“But you just tore his throat out!  You killed him!”

 

“Any decent witch or wizard has safeguards against that.  We never stay down for long.  His back-up plan will kick in and he’ll be up and after us in no time.”

 

Stiles moaned.

 

Derek sighed and cupped the back of her neck with one hand.  “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

 

She leaned back into his touch, acceptance and forgiveness, and then looked down at the ring on her gnarled old ring finger.  She thought of Coralcifer and how much she wanted to be sitting, warm and cozy, at the fire demon’s hearth and listening to that oddly echoing voice.  The sapphire set in the ring glowed orange and a tiny beam of light emerged, pointing ahead of them a few feet.

 

“Neat trick,” she muttered.

 

“Keep following that light and you should be there before dark,” Derek advised.

 

“And now you’ve said that, you’ve doomed us to – hey, wait a minute!  _I_ should be there by dark?  What about _you?_ ”

 

“Distraction, remember?”

 

“Oh, whatever!  I can’t do this!  Why did you make me go through all this if you were only going to come yourself?!”

 

“Knowing you’d be there gave me the courage to do it!  Peter _terrifies me_ , Stiles; you’ve seen why!  He was strong and cunning before the fire.  After, he went a little mad and then he killed my sister for the Alpha power.  I couldn’t face him on my own – not without someone I trusted to have my back.”

 

He bent and pressed his heavily beard scruffed cheek against hers.

 

Stiles closed her eyes at the touch.

 

“I was in big trouble back there,” Derek murmured.  “You _saved_ me, Stiles.”

 

With that, he let go of the steering wheel.

 

Stiles’ eyes snapped open and she let out a scream as the flier tilted down, right, and angled in that direction as well.  They slid across the sky, heading straight for an open-air cupola.  Shrieking, Stiles spun the wheel frantically and they skittered sideways through the support pillars of the cupola, bounced off one on the far side, and flew off into open air on the corrected path.

 

“ _Wow_ ,” Derek laughed, “you’re good!”

 

“You’re nuts!” Stiles bellowed, frightened clear to her liver.  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and jerked it incrementally to align with the light beam shining from her ring.

 

“We’ve got a good lead now, thanks to that maneuver!  I can give you five minutes of invisibility, so use it wisely!” Derek advised.

 

With that, he straightened up and made a sweeping gesture with his right arm.

 

“Wait!” Stiles shouted.  “I need those goggles!”

 

It was too late.  A carbon copy of their flier, with Stiles, Jennifer, and Deaton perched in the seats and Derek standing on the fuselage split away from them.  The only difference was that Derek actually _was_ aboard the copied image, leaving Stiles and the others alone aboard the original craft.

 

“Good luck!” Derek shouted, and ‘Stiles’ steered him and the others away over the city.

 

Stiles risked a glance behind her and saw that the Californian fliers were peeling away to follow Derek.

 

Stiles shouted an obscenity after Derek and then set herself to the task of learning how to fly in a hurry as they drifted down into a city park.  They dodged trees left and right, the propellers clipping twigs and leaves.  Then, like a nightmare, a massive oak appeared directly in their path.

 

Stiles growled and pulled _back_ on the yoke, and the little flier buzzed as it shot straight up at a steep angle.

 

They swatted against the top of the tree with a loud snap of rustling leaves, but they were clear after that.

 

“I’ve got this,” Stiles snapped to herself.  “I’ve _got_ this!  This isn’t unknown!  It’s physics!  Science!  It’s the stuff I learned in school and I _know_ it!  I just have to apply what I know!  Ha!”

 

Feeling triumphant, she flew herself and her passengers away through the air toward Howl’s Moving Castle.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Lydia’s lip curled disdainfully as she picked her way amid the rubble of the ruined atrium until she came to Peter Hale’s naked, charred body.  His throat was slashed wide open and he was staring sightlessly up at the domed ceiling far above him.

 

Sighing, she wedged the large oval mirror she carried with her between some debris, facing Peter’s body.  She put a looking glass to her eye and peered among the wreckage, and then used a vial to scoop up specific splotches of blood and fur.  She set that vial in Peter’s hand, letting the material inside slip out to touch his skin.  She stepped back, faced the mirror, and made a gesture while reciting an incantation.

 

The mirror glowed and became a portal to a nighttime location.   Light from a full moon poured through, shining over Peter Hale’s body.

 

It took a few moments, but the blood and fur puddling in his hands glowed with an eldritch light and his hand abruptly clenched around the organic matter.  The glass vial shattered, but that was insignificant as the rest of Peter’s body sloughed off charred skin in a rippling pulse, leaving healed flesh behind.  His throat repaired itself, sealing shut again.  His chest lifted as he breathed in, dropped as he breathed out, and then lifted again.  Awareness came back into his eyes and he blinked, again and again, and then sat up with a groan, shaking dust and debris from his mussed up hair.

 

He lifted his head and looked at Lydia with a grin.

 

“Thank you, my dear, for your timely intervention,” he murmured.

 

Lydia looked at him coldly.  “I did what I promised to do in exchange for taking out the Witch of the Waste, which I couldn’t have done.  I’d have _preferred_ you killed her so the curse on my sister would be ended!”

 

Peter hauled himself up onto his feet.  “That?  The Witch never would have been the key to stopping it.  Jennifer Blake no longer has magical ability at all.  That alone would have canceled the spell if it was tied to her.  It’s a self-actuating, self-perpetuating curse tied to your sister’s belief in her unworthiness.  The more used up and ugly she feels, the more she looks it.”

 

Lydia growled a little and stomped her foot.  “Damn it!  Stiles has always thought she was good for nothing except being the eldest!  That damn trope!  She has the spark to break free of it; already has done so, but she’s too locked into tradition to see it!”

 

“Yes, well, let’s see if I can’t hurry that along, hmm?” Peter murmured.  Still naked, he strode over to the ivory-and-gold brocade chair Stiles had been sitting in.  His magic staff was impaled through the back of it and Stiles’ hat was pinned there by the staff.

 

Lydia strode after him.  “If you think you’re going to harm my sister—“

 

Peter turned to glance at her, his eyes glowing bright blue.  “Now, Lydia, dear – I haven’t got a grudge against your sister, even if she _did_ cheat by talking courage into my gutless nephew.  _Him_ I owe some payback; _ten years_ of payback, and it must be done before he takes heart again or I’ll never be able to overpower him.  That castle of his is unplottable, though, so I’m going to need your sister’s help in finding him.”

 

“You fought him and he won!  Let it go!”

 

Abruptly, Peter was in Lydia’s space.  She lifted her chin, putting on a brave front even as she shivered with fear.

 

“Would _you_ let it go?” he demanded of her.  “Would _you_ let it go when the boy you were training to be the best failed so badly it ended in the murder of your family, your Pack?  Would _you_ let go being _left_ crippled and burned, left to heal slowly on your own with only your own will and strength to support you?  Tell me, Lydia, if your beloved father and sisters had been killed and _you_ had been left to rot in the half-burned shell of your body when you _knew_ you could have been helped by the one you trained – would you let it go?  Would you let go the fact the murderer was allowed to walk around free because a boy was _frightened_ of her?”

 

Lydia scowled.  “No.  No!  I wouldn’t.  I came to you after I received Stiles’ letter because I couldn’t have taken on the Witch of the Waste and if I’d tried, she’d have gone after the rest of my family!”

 

“Right,” Peter smirked, leaning back.  “You didn’t _let it go_ : you took action.  And now, _I’m_ going to take action.  If it helps, I’d rather Stiles not be harmed.  I could use a witch like her on my side, in my Pack.”

 

She glared at him.  “If you try it, not only will you have _me_ to deal with, but Allison will put an arrow through your black heart before our father can get a shot off – and then there’s what _he’ll_ do to you!  You know how much Stiles means to him; you’ve studied our family enough!  He’s frantic with worry as it is!”

 

“I might not be at full strength for a while yet, my dear, but I think I can handle a tribe of emotional humans.  Worry not; your darling sister won’t be harmed.  It’s _Howl_ I’m after, not her.”

 

With that, he walked away and took Stiles’ hat with him.

 

Lydia watched him go and thought, _Stiles, you need to believe in happy endings now more than ever!_

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Stiles was unaware of her sister’s silent prayer as she flew herself and her passengers toward home.  She was unaware of the sailors in San Francisco and ground troops in Los Angeles being sent against the residences of the “wizards” Hale and Wulfric.  Doors were burst open and the troops rushed in at their captains’ commands, ready to engage in a fierce battle with the wizard – only to find that each building was abandoned and derelict on the inside.  The magic that linked Derek’s castle to the town residences was only to the doors, not the actual buildings.

 

Even if Stiles knew, she’d have dismissed it.  The soldiers weren’t able to access the castle if the color wheel wasn’t turned to the correct wedge.  She wouldn’t have wasted time on that when she had bigger things to worry about: such as the fact that, yes, the sun was setting and they were flying straight into a thunderstorm.

 

Rain spilled over her, soaking her from her skull to her toes and her skin beneath her clothes.  The wind rushed over them as they flew and she was so cold; so miserably cold.  Behind her, Jennifer had pulled her cloak up to cover herself and Deaton, cozy and secure in the fur-trimmed black wool.  Stiles wanted desperately to demand Jennifer turn it over to her so she, the pilot, could remain uncompromised by the weather, but she knew it would be pointless.  Jennifer would refuse, they’d argue, and probably end up crashing.

 

At least with the darkness of evening, the beacon light from the ring was even easier to see.  She checked it again to make certain the light was still pointing straight ahead, and noticed a familiar piece of landscape below her, glowing with lamplight in the darkness.

 

“Home,” she whispered, and for a moment, her heart seized with longing.  She missed her father so much, and her sisters, too.  If she’d just stayed put, sure – she’d have been an old woman, but secure in the comfort of her own home, resting her old bones by the fire. 

 

She wondered if her family was worried about her; had been worried about her at all.  She knew her father would be, certainly.  He’d always been a good and loving father, but hopefully the notes she’d sent had Boyd post for her occasionally would have reassured him that she wasn’t dead and was, in fact, fine.  It was really her sisters she wondered about.  Allison had the bakery and Scott; did she really need to think about Stiles?  And, despite Lydia’s dismissive note, surely she’d have given _some_ thought for her eldest sister?  Or had Stiles served her purpose?

 

Forcing such thoughts away, she called over her shoulder, “We’re almost there!  That’s my hometown below us.  The Preserve is next and the Wastes are just beyond that!”

 

Deaton pushed his head out of the cloak and squeaked a wheezy bark at Stiles.

 

Stiles curled her lip at him and faced forward again.  “Don’t try to be cute, _dog_.  I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw _her_.”

 

Deaton grunted and tucked back into the cloak.

 

As they flew over the town, bells rang, signaling the evening hour.  Stiles changed their direction just slightly to fly over the hat shop and frowned when she saw it was dark.  Even at six in the evening, the shop shouldn’t have been closed yet; there should have been at least another hour of sales going on!

 

Sighing, she put them back on a straight line with the ring beacon and flew them over the river, leaving Beacon Hills – and, thankfully, the storm – behind them.

 

In the dark, starry night, they flew over the hills and dales that had so badly thwarted Stiles when she’d climbed up through them months ago.  She looked at the aerial view of the Wasteland paths she’d crawled across and marveled at her own temerity.  If she’d known the whole of what her journey looked like, she’d never have attempted it!

 

In the starlit darkness, she saw the bulk of a large shape glinting and shifting.  Sparks flared and lamps lit in the darkness, outlining the hulking mass of the castle.  Squinting her eyes, she saw – yes, there!  Turnip-Head was bouncing up by a balcony while Boyd waved, guiding her in.  Faintly, very faintly, she heard Boyd’s voice howling into the night, calling her name.

 

“The castle is coming to meet us!” Stiles crowed, utterly relieved.

 

The relief quickly changed to alarm as she realized they were on a direct course for the wolf-faced design of the front of the castle, the metal mouth gaping open wide.  Not only that, but it wasn’t only a _compass_ she couldn’t find on the flier – _brakes_ appeared to be missing, too!

 

“ _Boyd!_ ” she shrieked.  “Help me!  How am I supposed to land this thing?!”

 

The castle’s mouth gaped wide, with sharp metal teeth revealed, and swallowed them in a chomp.

 

An instant later, the flier and its passenger crashed through the wall of Stiles’ sleeping cubby, scattering bits of wood and masonry and metal as they tumbled and rolled to a halt.  The pink velvet chaise lounge, miraculously, remained unscathed.  Coralcifer, amid the commotion, shouted and tried to dodge the stone chunks hurtling at her.  She wasn’t entirely successful.  A large chunk of rock slammed straight into her fiery face, flattening her back in the log she was perched on.  The rock split in half when she blasted back with heat and power.

 

Boyd ran into the rubble pile, calling Stiles’ name as he approached a figure wrapped in black.

 

The figure lifted its head to reveal an old, horribly disfigured crone and a saggy old dog.

 

“Nice doggy,” the woman muttered.

 

The dog let loose a wheezing, squeaky bark.

 

Boyd stared in horror.  Could it be Stiles…?  _Master Derek?_

 

“Boyd!” Stiles called out, and there the old woman was, picking her way across the rubble with the flier’s steering wheel clutched in one hand and a smug grin on her wrinkled face.  “I’m home!”

 

Boyd threw his hands in the air and let out a wild cry of relief.  He scrambled forward and plowed into Stiles, lifting the old woman up and whirling her around in a big hug.

 

“Put me down, you lummox!” Stiles laughed.  She tossed the wheel away and wrapped her arms around the young man for a fierce hug.

 

“Shut up, you old coot!” Boyd shouted, laughing himself.  “I missed you!  Are you hurt?”

 

“I’m fine – no thanks to that no-count wizard of ours!  I missed you, too!  Thanks for coming to meet us.”

 

“Only because Derek said you’d probably need us,” Coralcifer grumbled from her hearth, her echoing voice ethereal as always.  She picked the stones and rocks away, but gathered everything flammable for consumption.  “He said if I felt you call, I had to answer.”  She gave Stiles a peevish glare.  “I’ve been feeling you for _hours_.”

 

“Not my fault!” Stiles retorted.  “Derek insisted we couldn’t teleport – and then, stuck me at the wheel of a flier, which I’ve never piloted before in my _life_ , and sent us on our merry way!  ‘You’ll be home before dark’ – ha!  When I get my hands on him, I’ll tell him what I think about his estimation abilities!”

 

Coralcifer snorted.  “So?  What happened?”

 

Stiles shook her head.  “Derek neglected to tell me he was sending me to meet his _uncle_ is what happened!  Then, he showed up disguised as that idiot king of ours, and then fought Peter Hale to the death!  Slashed his throat right out!”

 

“Peter will have a back-up plan to fix that,” Coralcifer dismissed, and Boyd nodded agreement.

 

“So Derek said.  I find that highly unnerving.  Peter Hale scared the wits right out of me!”

 

“Couldn’t have done; you all got away, didn’t you?” the fire demon challenged, her tone sly.

 

Stiles rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, yeah.  Derek’s leading Peter’s soldiers a merry chase while we scooted back here.  Speaking of: Boyd, help me get Jennifer settled and then we can do something about fixing that hole in the wall.”

 

“Jennifer?” Boyd echoed, frowning.  “Jennifer… Jennifer…”

 

“You know her as the Witch of the Waste,” Coralcifer grumbled.

 

Boyd’s eyes widened and he looked at the old woman and the dog in alarm.

 

Stiles sighed.  “It’s a long story.  I’ll tell it after we’ve set things to right – and I get some warm, dry clothing before I die of pneumonia!”

 

Boyd nodded.  “This oughtta be good.”

 

“It’ll be something,” Stiles promised.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Hours later, Stiles was roused from her sleep – but she knew it was still a dream.  She was _young_ again; young and strong and free of pain.

 

She heard a door thump shut overhead and pushed herself up from the bare, single-person mattress Boyd had conjured for her with Coralcifer’s coaching so Jennifer could have the chaise lounge to sleep on.  She was there now, mouth gaping open as she snored, chainsaw grunts issuing from her lipless mouth.  Deaton lay curled up on the blankets atop her lap.  If the dog was awake, it was doing a good job of pretending to be asleep.

 

“It must be Derek I heard coming home,” Stiles murmured.  She looked down at the wood floor – and flinched at the sight of wolf footprints outlined in blood.  A black feather lay in one of the sticky pools.

 

When she picked the feather up, it crumbled to ash at her touch.

 

Worried, Stiles grabbed up her boots and shoved her feet into them.  Not bothering with tying her honey-brown hair back, she lit a candle and made her way upstairs, shielding the flame with her free hand as she followed the trail of blood, paw prints, and feathers Derek had left behind.  She cautiously went to the door at the far right end of the third-floor hallway, following the bloody paw prints and feathers making a trail straight to Derek’s room.

 

“Derek?” Stiles called softly through the wood door.

 

She received no answer.  She put her left hand on the door handle, the ring Derek had given her glinting silver from her ring finger in the candle light.  She pushed down, certain she’d not be allowed in – but the door swung open to reveal the room transformed.  Gone was the plain bed, or any walls or windows.  A dark, earthen tunnel was the shape of the room now, stretching back as far as the eye could see.

 

Frightened, Stiles nevertheless stepped in and closed the door before picking her way through the tunnel, careful to not step wrong that she might twist her ankle.

 

She walked for what felt like hours.  Finally, a cold breeze blasted over her; the smell of the Wasteland air barren and pure in her nose.  She realized the tunnel had split into two paths.  She paused, wondering which way to go, when she suddenly heard heavy breathing in the darkness from the new tunnel branch.  Lifting the candle, she approached cautiously and discovered a ball of black feathers; enormous, easily ten feet high, even as curled down as the monster form was.  The feathers and wings rustled and shifted as the creature growled and panted for air through groans of pain, a long and thick-furred tail lashing against the rock floor.

 

“Derek?  Is that you?” Stiles asked, horrified at the state the wizard was in.  What had she left him to by not insisting he fly back with them?  “Derek!  Are you in pain?  Please – tell me what’s happening!”

 

From the feathers came a growling, inhuman voice that was barely recognizable as Derek’s: “ _Go away_.”

 

“Like hell I will,” she protested.  “You got into this mess trying to get us to safety.  I’m going to help you, you twit!  I’ll help you break the spell you’re under!”

 

“ _You?_ ” growled Derek.  He pushed upright and a monstrous wolf face emerged; enormous and terrifying, with glowing red eyes and a protruding snout full of sharp teeth.  “ _You can’t even break your own spell._ ”

 

“You don’t understand!” Stiles exclaimed, fear gripping her heart.  “I _love_ you, you dumb jerk!  All the fairy tales have to start from a few basic facts – and the one thing that stays with all of them is that true love conquers all!”

 

“ _You’re too late_ ,” Derek breathed – and then, he bolted; his strong wolf legs powering him forward.  In a rush of feathers and flight, he was gone from the tunnels.

 

Stiles ran into the void after him, screaming his name.  Her voice was suddenly aged and croaky, her body old and withered once more as her heart broke for herself and Derek.

 

Stiles shouted and shouted again – thrashed in her blankets and hauled herself upright, a cold sweat on her brow as the reality of water rushing through old pipes intruded on her nightmare and pulled her from sleep.

 

Shoving back her blanket, she twisted around and groaned at the aching pull on old bones and joints and sinews.  She glanced down at her hands and saw them the way she expected to: old, curled up; withered and warped with protruding veins and ancient skin.  She looked to the floor, but it was clean of blood and feathers.  Turning back around, she met Coralcifer’s gaze from where the fire demon lurked in a pile of lumber, her blue-flame eyes giving Stiles a somber glance.

 

“Has Derek returned?” Stiles asked.  From the chaise lounge, Jennifer snored and Deaton snoozed – eerily just like her dream.

 

“Yeah,” Coralcifer answered.  “He looks pretty bad.  You have to figure out how to break the spell on us pretty damn quick, Stiles.  Derek’s running out of time – and that means I am, too.”

 

“You mean he’ll become a monster – is that it?” Stiles demanded to know, her voice cold.

 

Coralcifer snorted.  “I can’t tell you the details of the curse, Stilinski – you know that.”

 

Stiles pushed up onto her feet and approached the fire.  She stared coldly down at Coralcifer, who shrank back at the look in the human’s eyes.

 

“Do you know what Peter said?” Stiles prompted, leaning down toward the fire.  “He told me that Derek’s heart was stolen from him – and he mentioned a demon.  He said that a demon of greed got to Jennifer; said it wasn’t a _fire_ demon.  Odd, isn’t it, that he specified a difference?  Tell me, now, Coralcifer – what do you know?”

 

“I know lots of things,” Coralcifer replied, her tone smarmy and condescending, “but _that_ , I’m sorry to say, would be confidential information for a short-access list that you’re just not on.”

 

Stiles reared upright and planted her fists on her hips.  “What if I dumped a bucket of water on you?  _Cold_ water, at that!”

 

Coralcifer poofed into a smaller size, cowed for a brief moment, and then flared up again.  “If you drown me, then Derek dies _too!_   How many times do I have to tell you that, Stilinski, before you _listen_ to me?!”

 

Stiles snorted.  “I’m listening – but I hear nothing that makes sense!”

 

“Because you don’t want it to!” Coralcifer shouted.  “You’re afraid that you’re not reason enough for Derek to stick around once he’s freed!”

 

Insulted at how accurate that statement was, Stiles turned and caught up her blanket and pillow, making her way upstairs.  She was willing to catch a cold nap in a drafty hallway than stay in Coralcifer’s presence at that moment.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

Hours later, in the cool gray light of dawn, Stiles stepped out into the Wastes from the castle door.  She was once again in her dress; now dry if a bit crinkly, with her woolen shawl around her for warmth.  She stood straighter and there was more hair on her head; still gray, but thicker, and her braid was now hanging between her shoulder-blades.  Her hands ached in the cold, as did her shoulders and hips, but she could move easily as she walked out into the faint light beginning along the horizon.

 

Stepping onto a rock outcropping, she looked down into the Preserve that lurked below the Wastes.  The forest was wreathed in a blanket of thick fog.  In the far distance, hulking mountains rose up from the mist; stony sentinels in the pre-dawn landscape.

 

Stiles turned to face the castle with a grim expression.  It sat in a dark, hulking lump; cold metal and other materials lifeless in the dawn air.  The wolf snout sagged open and, through it, she could see the warm glow of Coralcifer’s fire in the gaping hole where the flier still lay crash-landed.

 

Thumping filled the air and Turnip-Head came to a hopping stop beside Stiles.  She gave the scarecrow a wan smile.

 

“Morning, Turnip-Head,” she murmured.

 

The scarecrow tilted and twisted at her, the turnip at the top nodding just slightly.

 

Stiles sighed and faced the castle again.  She shook her head.

 

“This is _not_ going to be easy,” she muttered.  “Still, needs must.  Can I count on you for help?”

 

Turnip-head bounced a little and twirled.

 

She smiled.  “Thanks, buddy.”

 

A few hours later, though, the extraction process was under way.

 

In the bright light of day, Deaton and Boyd ran out across a grassy patch of wasteland with a sturdy rope in teeth and hands.  The rope was wrapped around Turnip-Head’s torso to provide extra leverage.

 

“Okay!” Boyd shouted, his voice ringing over the Wasteland.  “ _Ready!_ ”

 

Stiles, inside the castle, thumped a wall with her hand.  “Open wider, Coralcifer.”

 

Coralcifer gave her a peevish glare but, with a metallic grinding noise, the wolf snout strained to open even farther than it already was.  The rope that the trio outside had hold of fed through the mouth to tie around the fuselage of the busted flier.  The castle leaned back on its legs while Boyd, Deaton, and Turnip-Head pulled with all their might.  The rope helped lever the metal tongue of the castle’s wolf mouth even further down.

 

Inside, Stiles strained to shove the crumpled flier through the hole in the wall.  It wasn’t so much that the thing was too heavy, but the wings were jammed up and she didn’t have the tools to take them off.  Neither could they take any more of the wall down without destabilizing the wards that kept them protected.

 

Stiles grunted and groaned, shoving with all her might while Boyd yelled at her to hurry the hell up.

 

“Excuse you!” Stiles shouted back.  “Aren’t _you_ the werewolf?  Where’s that super strength of yours all of a sudden that you’re relying on an old lady like me to do the heavy lifting?!”

 

“I’m giving it all I’ve got!” Boyd shouted back.  “Within reason, anyway!  Unless you want me to break Turnip-head?!”

 

“No!”

 

“Then _push_ , Stiles!”

 

Disgusted, Stiles focused on the flier.  “Come on – move on out of there!”

 

She shoved, she _shoved_ , and the flier didn’t budge.

 

“I – said – _move!_ ” she shouted, and backed up to deliver a furious kick to the already dented fuselage.  “Ow!  My toe!”

 

He had to scramble out of the way as the flier suddenly came to life, its warped and mangled oar propellers flapping madly to spur it out of the hole.  It rolled and tumbled out of the castle’s mouth, heading straight for Turnip-Head, Boyd, and Deaton.

 

Deaton squeaked and ran, Boyd yelled, and Turnip-Head simply bounced out of the way as the flier lost its wings and rolled at them in a whirl.  All three took shelter behind a barrier of rocks and the flier crashed up against the stones, shuddered, and went still with a hiss of dying hydraulics.

 

Boyd blinked down at the mangled mess of dead machinery, and then threw his hands up in the air on a gleeful howl.  Deaton hopped and wheezed while Turnip-Head bounced around the grassy area.

 

Stiles set about sweeping out dust and tossing out ruined masonry and rubble, hoping to make things a little better.  Behind her, a pot swung from a hook over Coralcifer, heating a quickly hashed together chicken soup and dumplings.

 

Finally, the place was as tidy as it was going to be.  Stiles glanced at the gaping hole in the brick wall and sighed before saying, “Maybe if I hang a curtain here, Derek won’t notice.”

 

She snorted at her own folly and then glanced out to where Turnip-Head, Boyd, and Deaton were all chasing each other around.  Boyd was barely eighteen if he was a day, but he was laughing and carefree in a way Stiles had never seen him before.  With a pang, she wondered if this was the first time in a long time that the young orphan had had a chance to play.

 

Checking over her shoulder, she met Coralcifer’s gaze.  The fire demon curled a lick of flame up to rap fiery knuckles against the bottom of the pot.

 

Seeing that, Stiles turned back around and called, “Come in!  It’s time to eat!”

 

In a few moments, four of them were settled at the dining table: Jennifer, Stiles, Boyd and Deaton, while Coralcifer consumed a bowl of soup and a couple of dumplings in a long gulp.  Boyd dished up a bowl of soup and dumplings for the dog and himself – and both commenced to eating sloppy and slobbery.  Jennifer, still diminished mentally from her ordeal, sat and stared with a dopey smile at Coralcifer, prompting Stiles to quickly eat her own meal and then spoon-feed soup and dumplings into the old former witch.

 

Coralcifer glared back at Jennifer, shrunk down into almost nothing in an attempt to hide from the disfigured crone’s intense stare.

 

“Here,” Stiles said, holding up a spoon loaded with broth, meat, and vegetable; “want some more?”

 

Jennifer turned her gaze to the spoon long enough to let Stiles put the food in her mouth, and then went right back to staring at Coralcifer as she chewed.

 

The fire demon grimaced and looked away, disgusted at the sight.

 

“Why the hell are you feeding her?  She’s the Witch of the Waste!” Coralcifer hissed.

 

“Not anymore she’s not,” Stiles retorted.  “Peter Hale saw to that.  She’s a harmless old woman, now.  What: I should let her starve?”

 

“Considering everything she’s done,” Coralcifer answered meanly, heavily implying ‘to you’, “I’d think you _would_.”

 

“Maybe I’m not as mean and insensitive as _some_ people think I am!” Stiles snapped.

 

“I don’t think you are,” Boyd piped up through a mouthful of food.  “Okay, you can be petty sometimes, and you’re really sarcastic, but you’re not – y’know – all over _bad_.”

 

“That’s enough out of you,” Stiles pouted.

 

Boyd grinned at her and tapped his teeth with his spoon.

 

“She keeps staring at me,” complained Coralcifer.  “It’s creeping me out!”

 

“What a pretty fire,” Jennifer mumbled, staring at the fire demon.

 

Coralcifer poofed out of sight in response and Stiles snickered.

 

Booted feet came running down the stairs and everyone perked up as Derek loped into the room.  He wore black pants tucked into black boots, and a loose gray shirt over all that.  His hair stood up in artful disarray, soft spikes tufting upward.  Rubies glinted from his earlobes this time and a gold chain hung around his neck.  He looked refreshed and alive.

 

Stiles wanted to hit-and-hug him all over again.

 

“Good morning, everyone!” Derek called out, coming over to the table and putting his hands on his trim hips.

 

“Derek!” Stiles replied, and nodded.  “Hello.”

 

“Master Derek!” Boyd exclaimed, a big smile on his face.  “We can keep this dog, can’t we?”

 

Derek snorted.  He looked from the old woman to the dog and back again.  “The Witch of the Waste and Peter’s dog at my table – what possessed you let _them_ in my house, Coralcifer?”

 

Coralcifer flared up out of the logs.  “I didn’t _let_ them in, Derek!  Stiles crash-landed her _plane_ into my _face!_ ”

 

While Stiles gave Coralcifer an un-amused look, Derek burst into uproarious laughter, startling everyone.  Stiles, in particular, stared in shock.  She’d never heard Derek laugh before and seeing his unfettered amusement made her breath catch at how lovely he was.

 

“I knew she’d make a great pilot!” Derek declared.  “Now, then… let’s see what we can do about _this_.”

 

So saying, he pulled a potion vial from a pocket.  He opened it and then tipped the contents into Jennifer’s mouth, coaxing her to swallow.  She made a pleased noise at the taste, and closed her eyes when Derek covered her face with his hands.

 

When he took them away, the disfigurement of injury was gone.  She was still no longer a youthful beauty, but she had lips and a nose again.  She was fat and plain, with short white hair, but she appeared whole.

 

“Why?” Boyd asked, frowning in confusion.  “After everything she’s done to you and because of you?”

 

“Because nobody deserves to look that bad,” Derek replied.  “And her injuries were caused not by her own doing but because of another person’s evilness.  I can’t – and wouldn’t – restore her powers, but I can give her a face again.”

 

“You healed her?” Stiles asked, surprised.  “If you can do that, you’ll be in much demand at the hospitals for patients injured by the war.”

 

Derek shook his head.  “It’s an illusion and one tied to her own intense desire to hide her disfigurement.  As long as she doesn’t want anyone to see her scars, then we won’t.”

 

“What about the senility?”

 

“That’s due to her advanced age, which she was holding at bay with her powers.  I can’t _stop_ the senility, but I can slow its advancement to allow her some lucidity.”

 

“Then, I think you should.  I’d never have known about my witchy gift if she hadn’t surfaced in time to tell me yesterday.”

 

Derek nodded.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

He turned his attention to the hole in the wall where Turnip-Head lurked.  The scarecrow could peer in, but still not come in. 

 

Derek strode over to the tattily bedecked creature.  “Looks like we have yet another addition to the family.”  He peered at the scarecrow.  “Hmm… looks like you’ve got quite a nasty spell on you, too.”  He sighed.  “Seems like everyone in this family’s got problems.”

 

Stiles, listening to this, felt her heart thump in her chest at hearing Derek call them all ‘family’.

 

“What a _beautiful_ man,” Jennifer burbled, her intense stare now transferred to Derek.

 

Derek turned and flashed a smile at her, preening, before clapping his hands together.  “So, we’ve got a lot of work to do.  We’re moving!”

 

“ _Moving?_ ” Stiles gasped.  She glanced around.  She didn’t _want_ to leave the castle.  It felt more like home than her own home ever had.

 

“That’s good,” Boyd commented.  “I’m sick of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere.”

 

When Stiles turned to look at him, confused, Boyd pointed at the door.

 

“See the color wheel?” he prompted.

 

Stiles looked and gasped.  Only green and black were on there now; the dial currently turned to Wasteland green.

 

“Peter – once he recovered – sent troops to the Los Angeles and San Francisco doors,” Boyd explained.  “Once they busted in, the protection charm laced into the magic activated and the connections were severed.”

 

“Right,” Derek agreed.  “I’m afraid Los Angeles and San Francisco are lost to us, but there are plenty of other towns to choose from.”

 

Stiles sighed.  “A pity; I liked the ocean at San Francisco.”

 

“I’ll get you another coastal town, Stiles.”  The warmth in Derek’s voice made the old woman flush pink with pleasure. 

 

“No,” she denied, “that’s alright.  I just… I appreciate the thought, but I was lucky enough to see San Francisco.  Take whatever’s easiest.”

 

“You sure?”

 

She nodded.

 

“Alright, then.  Peter is hot on our trail so we’re gonna have to hurry.”  Derek turned to Turnip-Head.  “I’m afraid your spell is too strong for this move.  You’re going to have to stay behind.”

 

Stiles made an unhappy noise and stood up.  Boyd stood up, too, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

 

“He means here in the Wastelands,” Boyd comforted.  “By ‘moving’, Master Derek means he’s gonna change the interior and add the new portals to the door.  It will move our magical imprint, scrubbing us from the ley lines as we are and making it harder for Peter to find us.  Turnip-Head will still be here in the Wastelands, but the _inside_ will move where he can’t go.  Get it?  We won’t lose him entirely.”

 

Stiles sighed.  “I get it, but… Derek?  Surely there’s something you can do to help Turnip-Head?”

 

“It would take more time and resources than I have now,” Derek answered, raising an eyebrow.  “I can either investigate Turnip-head’s curse or I can protect the castle and all of us – with Coralcifer’s help.  Which is it?”

 

Turnip-Head turned and hopped away.

 

Stiles made a frustrated noise and turned back to helping Jennifer eat her meal.

 

Derek snorted and went to get his tools. 

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Nearly an hour later, an immense chalk diagram had been outlined on a wide patch of land.  Boyd had gone around with Deaton’s helping, picking up all the small loose stones to keep the field of activity clear while Derek had used a rolling chalk cart to draw the magical transportation circle he needed.  It was a simple thing; a circle with chalk lines connecting various points.  The only extreme ornamentation to the diagram was a three-arm spiral set in the middle of it.

 

Satisfied with the results, Derek stepped away from the circle and called, “Alright, Coralcifer – line ‘er up!”

 

Creaking and hissing, the bulk of the castle walked forward until it was centered over the enormous diagram.

 

Turnip-Head lurked several yards away, watching the entire process.

 

Once the castle was settled, Derek nodded to the scarecrow before leading Boyd and Deaton back inside where he marked a smaller duplicate of the diagram on the wooden floorboards in the main room.

 

Stiles, who’d watched the other transportation ring being drawn, frowned down at this new one.  “He wears the same symbol on his back, doesn’t he?”

 

“A triskele,” Boyd said, walking past her to pile furniture up out of the way.  “It’s his emblem; both a seal and a sigil.”

 

Stiles nodded her understanding.

 

Derek finished the chalk drawing and Boyd chivvied the old people and the old dog to sit up on the dining table before climbing up to join them.

 

“That should do it,” Derek said, giving the chalk markings a critical eye.  He quirked a small smile at his family.  “Sit tight for a second.”

 

He went to the hearth and picked up an ash shovel and held it out to Coralcifer.  Easing the dark lump of her core into the shovel, Coralcifer settled into it with a sigh.

 

“Be gentle with me,” she teased Derek.

 

“I always am,” he teased back.

 

“Ha!”

 

Derek grinned and carried her over to the circle, stepping into the center of it.

 

“On my mark!” he instructed, and held his right arm out to the side.

 

A magical wind whirled up around them as Derek and Coralcifer drew on their combined power in preparation for the spell.  Derek’s hair rustled and waved, his clothing fluttering around his body while Coralcifer waved and whipped from side to side.

 

“Now!” Derek cried out.

 

Coralcifer shrank in on herself – and then, exploded upward and outward.  For the first time, she assumed a terrifying, demonic form; a giant face of blue and purple fire, filled with fiery sharp teeth and howling in a deep, inhuman voice.

 

The three humans and the dog watching the spectacle watched with equal parts amazement and critical examination of Derek and Coralcifer’s work.

 

Things and people floated up into the air as the room around them changed shape.  The hole in the wall filled in again and then changed to a new form of stone and mortar.  Beams vanished and reappeared in different areas.  The floorboards changed to newer, darker colored wood, and more windows popped into existence.  Rooms were added on and furniture plopped into place out of thin air.

 

Within moments, the changes were done and everything floated back down gently as Coralcifer collapsed down into a simple orange fire again.  She let out a groan of exhaustion as Derek carried her back to the hearth, settling her among her logs again.

 

Stiles gazed around at the yellow wallpaper, the bigger room – the wide open and airy spaces.  The mosaic tile sink was now green and white; bigger, with newer materials and a built-in drying rack and hanging racks.  Beside it was a stovetop and oven combination which meant they would no longer have to cook atop Coralcifer.  There was a breakfast nook with a window and a tiny table with two chairs.  Decorative plates and pretty pastoral paintings adorned the walls.  Stiles could hear very familiar bells ringing and ran to the window – not noticing that her body was mostly back to normal except for a few wrinkles and her hair being more gray than honey-brown and a little bit longer.

 

She looked out the window in time to see the 10:20 train go rattling past the house – right on time.  Before the cloud of smoke from the smokestack obscured her view, she could make out the faint shape of the very castle they were living in lurking up in the sunny Wastes.

 

 _My God_ , Stiles thought, alarmed.  _We moved into **my** house!  What does it mean that this place was available?_

 

“Oh,” she heard Jennifer burble, “what a pretty fire.”

 

 _There goes the baker on his way to meet his mistress_ , Stiles thought, watching Baker Martin go past the house as part of Beacon Hills’s worst kept secret.  The _better_ kept secret was how Baker Martin’s wife pretended not to know so she could get on with her own pleasures.

 

Stiles bit back a hysterical giggle and hoped she wouldn’t cry.

 

“I took us to Beacon Hills,” Derek announced.  “Peter might not suspect us being so close to our actual physical location.  He might, he might not.  The point is, though, that we’re physically close, so we can do something if need be.”

 

“This is great, Master Derek!” Boyd said, running around the room with Deaton on his heels before bolting to the door.  “This place is _huge!_ ”

 

 _Of course it is,_ Stiles thought.  _Nothing but the best for the Hatter family, even if they did begrudge my father moving in when he married mom._

 

Her father’s bed, clean and neatly spread up, was settled on the floor to the left of the bank of windows on the main floor.  Derek walked over and opened a door to Stiles’ right and she looked over to see a small toilet room, complete with flush commode, small sink, and a mirror – just what she’d expected to see.

 

“I added on a bathroom,” Derek said with a grin, closing the door, “since our family seems to keep growing.”

 

Stiles stared at the closed door even as Derek walked away.  She didn’t move until she heard him calling her to come join him.

 

“I added on another bedroom, too,” Derek said with a smile, and flung open a door.  “Have a look!”

 

Stiles walked into her former work room.  The workbench running under the bank of windows was cleared of all blank hats and trimmings and sewing supplies; all of his projects and hatting tools gone.  The bank of cubby shelves above the workbench was completely empty.  Her own bed sat tidy and comfortable-looking, her pillow and her comforter precisely where they were supposed to be even if the bed itself wasn’t.  She supposed her bedroom, that she’d once shared with two sisters and then became solely her own, was now Boyd’s.  The master suite, of course, would go to Derek.  But at least her pillow and comforter were still there; hadn’t been taken along with everything else.  Beribboned boxes were piled on the workbench and on the bed; some of them hat boxes, some of them clothing boxes, and the rest were God only knew what else.

 

Looking around, her voice soft and her skin free of wrinkles, her hair still gray but once again hanging in a plait down to the small of her back, Stiles asked, “Why’d you… do this?”

 

“So we’d have a room that suited you,” Derek answered with a grin.  He leaned in the doorway, slouchy and sensual and muscular.  “Do you like it?”

 

Stiles’ shoulders hunched and her hands gnarled; her face sagged with wrinkles and spotted again; her hair shortened again.

 

“Yes,” she rasped in her old woman voice.  “It’s perfect for a cleaning lady.”

 

“I got you some new clothes, too,” Derek explained, gesturing at the boxes.  He turned and walked away.  “But you can open them later.”

 

Stiles stood and looked out the windows of her workshop to the faint outline of the castle in the Wastes above the Preserve.

 

“Come on, Stiles!” Derek’s voice echoed through the house.  “Look at this!”

 

“I’ve seen it all before,” Stiles whispered sadly.  “This _is_ my house.”

 

Down the stairs from the main room, the color wheel now fitted with yellow and red wedges (currently showing yellow), Boyd yanked the door open and ran out  into the courtyard with Deaton following.  In the window overlooking the courtyard, Jennifer had propped herself and was smiling out dazedly, seemingly content.

 

Derek hopped down the stairs, following his apprentice outside.

 

“A _courtyard!_ ” Boyd yowled, and turned a cartwheel in excitement.

 

“That shop’s ours, too,” Derek said with a grin, amused at Boyd’s antics.  He glanced at Stiles when the old woman joined him.  “It came with the place – both of them vacant and up for grabs.  Owners must have moved out because of the war or something.”

 

“Or something,” she agreed softly.

 

“See the red on the dial?” Derek said, shutting the door and flicking the wheel over to it.  He opened the door and cool mountain air wafted in along with warm sunshine and the scent of flowers.

 

Stiles gasped as she looked outside into a wide mountain valley filled to the brim with wildflowers.

 

“Tell me you have an antihistamine potion or three,” Stiles begged.  “I’ve always had a dreadful pollen allergy!”

 

Derek snorted.  He snapped his fingers and pointed at Stiles, who gasped as she felt a tingle of power rush over her.  She blinked at him and he smirked.

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Stiles.”  He held out his hand.  “C’mon… trust me?”

 

In an instant, Stiles melted.  Vulnerable in her love for Derek, she reached out and put her hand in his.

 

“Yes,” she murmured.  “Of course I do.”

 

Derek’s answering smile was soft and sweet as he led Stiles out into the flower meadow.

 

“Come see my present to you,” he murmured, closing the door of the simple stone hut the portal had brought them to.

 

Stiles couldn’t contain an appreciative sigh at the sight of small ponds so clear and pure they reflected the brilliant blue sky overhead; the white, puffy clouds.  They were so high up in altitude, with snowy mountains ringing them, that the clouds were more like ground cover – thick and slow and moving over the land and them in cold mist that felt refreshing.  The air was so chill it took their breath away, but the uncovered sun was warm and strong overhead, keeping them from freezing.  Flowers, flowers, everywhere; by the hundreds, by the thousands, in a dazzling array of health and color, were scattered as far as the eye could see.

 

“Like it?” Derek asked.  He offered her his arm and Stiles tucked her hand through the crook of his limb, lifting her long skirt with her other hand to keep from tripping gracelessly.  They walked through the flora and Derek had a warm, contented smile on his face.  “It’s my secret garden.  It’s where I come to collect ingredients for potions.  I’ve been working on it for years.”

 

“It’s incredible,” Stiles murmured.  “I’m not… I’m not really an outdoors-y type, but _this_ … it’s even more beautiful than Star Lake, and I thought I’d never see anything lovelier than that.”

 

Derek smirked.  “The climate is perfect up here.  I only had to use a little magic to help the flowers and herbs spread, but everything else takes care of itself.  The sun gives warmth and nutrients, the clouds water them… it’s perfect up here.”

 

Stiles nodded.  “It really is.”

 

Derek helped her jump a small running stream on the way over to one of the bigger ponds.  Stiles didn’t notice her return to youthful vitality; too entranced with the environment and the man walking her through it.

 

She went up to the edge of the pond and looked out over the expanse of water, seeing the perfect reflection of blue sky, white clouds, and colorful flowers and grass.

 

“This is _gorgeous_ , Derek!” Stiles laughed.  She inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of floral perfume without her nose wanting to explode off her face from sneezing.  “It’s like the most perfect dream.”

 

She looked and looked at everything, feeling oddly like she knew this place.

 

“A very familiar dream,” Stiles murmured.  She quirked a half-smile over her shoulder at Derek, who was watching her intently.  “I feel like I’ve seen this place, but I _know_ I’ve never been here before – nor have I seen it in photographs.  But, somehow, I know this place… and I feel like this is home.”

 

Derek grinned and Stiles’ heart fluttered.  God help her, she wanted to walk into Derek’s space; wanted to twine her arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss that would set fire to every flower in the meadow with the heat of their passion.  She _wanted_ , she _craved_ … but Derek; he didn’t seem to want that from her.  Stiles knew it and so she would take what she _could_ get, even if it was only friendship.

 

When Derek held out a hand and said, “Come with me,” Stiles nodded and let him walk her away over the meadow.

 

They crested a small hill and he pointed down.  “Look there!”

 

She blinked to see a small, thatch-roofed cottage complete with water wheel spinning through a moderate brook that fed into a small pond and a simple stone patio that led down into the meadow.

 

“It’s… cute?” she offered.

 

Derek snorted and grinned.  “It was my secret hideaway as a kid.  I spent a lot of time here by myself when I was young.  My mother was the Alpha of our family, but Dad was a human wizard, and this used to be his work place until he met my mom.”

 

“How’d that happen?”

 

“He needed to capture a werewolf for a spell.  According to my parents, Mom took one look at him and said ‘I think _I’ll_ keep _you_ , instead’ and Dad just said ‘Okay’.  They were married within a week and nine months later, Laura came along.”

 

Stiles laughed.  “That sounds adorable, actually.”

 

Derek had a fond smile on his face.  “It kind of is, yeah.”  He shook his head.  “Anyway, Dad and Peter – Mom’s brother – both saw that I’d inherited not only the werewolf gene, but raw magical ability, too.  Dad wasn’t a very powerful wizard; not like Peter, so he taught me basics before turning me over to Peter.  But he also wanted me to have a safe place to go to practice my magic and to have some alone time, being the only boy child between two sisters.”

 

Stiles nodded.  “I can see why.  Only… you were alone?  Really?  There was no one to provide company?”

 

Derek gave her a salacious wink.  “Only when I wanted it.”

 

She blushed hot pink and looked at him with mild alarm.

 

He shook his head.  “No.  I never brought Kate here – thank God.  Other… visitors… happened later; much later, once I’d grown in power and was more secure.  I realized I didn’t like showing off this special place my dad had given me to complete strangers.  I felt they wouldn’t appreciate the beauty of this place or understand it’s meaning to me.  But I think you do, so now, it’s yours.”

 

He started walking down the hill toward the cottage, Stiles’ hand held in his.

 

Stiles stayed where she stood and let their hands pull apart.

 

Derek turned to look at her, confused.  “What’s wrong?”

 

She gave a small shake of her head.  “You’re scaring me.  The way you’re talking, the way the castle is set up now, the fact that you moved me back into _my own home_ – and you can’t tell me you didn’t know, I’ll never believe it – I just… I get the feeling that you’re planning to leave.  You’re going to run away again.”

 

Derek’s face went somber as he looked at her.

 

“You know I don’t care, right?” she queried.  “You know I don’t care that you’re a werewolf and that you can turn into some kind of bird-wolf thing?  You could turn into a _lizard_ for all I care and it wouldn’t stop me from… from being your friend.”

 

A warm smile eased across Derek’s face, lighting his green eyes.  He climbed back up the few feet that separated them until he was eye-level with her.

 

“I’m setting things up so all of you can live comfortably, Stiles,” he murmured.  “With all of the flowers in this valley, you could run a flower shop.  People always want flowers.  It’d be a good source of income.  And the flowers and herbs would be there for Boyd, and even for Jennifer.  Sure, she can’t use them magically anymore, but she’s _old_ ; they’ll be good for keeping her healthy.”

 

Stiles shook her head.  “You think a pastoral life as flower shop keepers will be enough for any of us?  You called us family, Derek.  Didn’t you mean it?  We’ve helped you – we can _still_ help you!  _I_ can help you!  I know I’m… I’m nothing special, and all I’m good for is cleaning and talking at things, but there’s something useful in _that_ , isn’t there?  Just because I’m not beautiful to look at doesn’t make me useless!”

 

Derek’s eyes flared wide with shock.  “Not beautiful?  Stiles!  I can’t believe you think that!  Of course you’re… beautiful…”

 

His voice trailed off as Stiles shrank into old age once again, flashing him a wan grin from her weathered, craggy face.

 

“The good thing about being old,” she said in her age-husky voice, “is you don’t have much of anything to lose.”

 

Derek gave her a somber look.

 

They stared at each other in silence, the Old Woman and the Wizard, and then Derek blinked and looked away as a sound caught his attention.  He lifted up a hand when Stiles started to ask, ordering her to remain quiet with a gesture.

 

Stiles followed Derek’s gaze and they looked to the far end of the meadow where light reflected off a large metal object that sent a faint thrumming noise over the valley.  It was a battleship, its tongue-like cilia propellers flapping in cascading rhythm to push the hulking gray menace through the air.  The peace of the valley was instantly discarded with the entrance of the war machine into the area.

 

“What is _that_ thing doing out here?” Derek muttered, scowling.

 

“A battleship,” Stiles murmured, grimacing.

 

“Still looking for more cities to burn.”

 

“Is it one of ours or theirs?”

 

“What difference does it make?”

 

The battleship shifted course, heading toward them.  Derek moved up to stand beside Stiles and the two of them stayed silent as the massive ship floated past them.  They saw in the underbelly of the ship row upon row of black bombs waiting to be unleashed on a target.

 

“Those stupid murderers,” Derek growled.  “It’s not just the soldiers – it’s those witches and wizards on board.  They’re doing so much wrong for _no good reason_.  It’s sickening!”

 

“But what can you do about it?” Stiles protested.

 

Derek gave a wicked smile and lifted his hand.  “I can make sure they don’t fly off with all of those bombs.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Stiles sighed, and winced her eyes closed.

 

Derek gestured.  Unseen, his magic lashed out and pushed through the wards layering the ship – wards that were no match against his power.  The magic targeted the electronics and gears of the battleship, gummed up the works until all but one propeller had stopped, so the ship remained aloft on stabilizers but unable to go anywhere as klaxons began blaring and men shouted in alarm.

 

Stiles blinked her eyes open and saw the ship still in the air.  “Um… alright.  I’d thought maybe…”

 

Derek shook his head.  “I don’t actually want _anyone_ to be killed.  I messed with the ship, is all.  It won’t crash, but they’ll get it fixed eventually.  That gives us enough time to get back through the portal and warn any nearby towns.”

 

Stiles started to reply, and then noticed the way Derek was holding his left arm stiffly down by his side, his right arm gripping the biceps tight.  Shifting, she saw what Derek was trying to hide: claws sprouting from his fingers, black fur sprouting up through the skin of his arm.

 

“Any magic,” she whispered.  “Any magic at all provokes this?”

 

“I’m running out of time,” Derek murmured.  “I don’t know how I can care so much sometimes when I’ve lost my humanity.”

 

“But you’re the most human man I know!” Stiles protested.  “You’re conceited and you run too much and inconsiderate on occasion, but you give so much to people who have so little.  You don’t _have_ to care, to do for others, but you _do_.  It’s more than most people I’ve known would do!  You _are_ human, Derek, even if you’re a werewolf, too!”

 

Derek let out a breathless little laugh.  He closed his eyes and tipped his head forward to press his forehead to Stiles’.

 

“You sweet talker,” he murmured, nuzzling gently.  “Sometimes I think you could give heart to the heartless.  It makes me feel saved.”

 

“Derek,” Stiles sighed, closing her eyes.

 

Abruptly, Derek lifted his head away and looked past her.  “Uh-oh – here they come!”

 

Stiles opened her eyes and wrenched around with a gasp.  From a strange protrusion, fat black blobs were expelled that stayed aloft on leathery wings.  They looked like monstrous tadpoles, strangely wearing scarlet masks over their eyes and top hats, of all things!  Spindly arms and legs dangled from fat, gray-black bodies and thick leathery tails pulled out behind them.  Mouths gaped open inhumanly wide to reveal monster teeth, sharp and pointy.

 

“What are they?” she bleated, stumbling back in fear.

 

“The sellouts,” Derek sneered, keeping her upright with an arm around her waist.  “The witches and wizards called by Finstock and Peter to kill for them in this war.  They gave up their humanity for an increase in power and they’ll never, ever get it back.  They’ll never recall they _were_ human.”

 

Stiles made a noise of revulsion – and then, one of fright as the creatures hissed en masse and buzzed into flight toward them.

 

“Time to go!” Derek exclaimed, and pulled Stiles into a run toward the little stone hut that held their door portal.

 

Stiles let out a grating cry as her knees were forced to work harder and faster than they wanted to.

 

Fur covered Derek’s arms in a thick pelt from fingers to shoulders as he wrapped them around Stiles, still urging her along.

 

“Faster, Stiles!  We need to take off!” Derek shouted.

 

“This is pretty much my top gear!” Stiles shouted back, but gamely tried anyway.

 

Fur spread up Derek’s neck and black feathered wings burst from his back.  A few flaps of the massive limbs and he was aloft, grabbing Stiles by the wrists and pulling the old woman into the sky.

 

They sped through the air over the valley, Stiles yelling in fright even as her legs windmilled around and around in a running rhythm.  Derek gained altitude and then dove toward the little hut, aiming for the door.

 

“Alright!” he shouted.  “You’re going in!”

 

“No!” Stiles yowled.  “Don’t let go!”

 

Derek ignored her and threw her at the door.

 

Still running, Stiles felt through the air.  Derek’s magic wrapped around her, kept her upright and on course, and she crashed through the door to fetch up against the castle’s stone steps with a pained cry.  The door slammed shut, locking out Peter’s wizards and Derek, and the color dial spun to yellow.

 

The door crashed open again a moment later, Boyd bolting in from the courtyard with a laugh and Deaton on his heels – and came to a gasping, stuttering stop.  “Stiles?  What happened?!”

 

Stiles sat upright with a groan, rubbing at her aching back.

 

“I’m too old to be treated like this!” she snapped at the young man.

 

“Like _what?_ ”

 

“Like a wizard’s hackey-sack!  Uggghhhh, _drat_ that man!  What was he _thinking_ slinging my old bag of bones around like that?!”

 

Boyd sighed and moved forward to help Stiles up onto her feet.  “Sounds like there’s more news to hear.”

 

“When _isn’t_ there?”

 

Boyd nodded and helped Stiles up the stairs, Deaton following.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Later that night, while Stiles sat at her workbench and made a few changes to some of the clothes Derek had gotten her, a knock sounded at the door of her bedroom.  It opened before she could say yea or nay and, to Stiles’ complete un-surprise, there stood Boyd in pajamas with Deaton beside him.

 

“You’re supposed to wait for me to answer before barging in,” Stiles chided without heat.

 

“Whoops,” he replied, grinning sheepishly.  “Just saying goodnight, Stiles.”

 

“Goodnight, Boyd.”

 

The young man was about to leave when he saw Stiles cast a worried glance out into the dark night beyond the windows of the room.

 

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” he advised.  “Master Derek likes to go away for days at a time.  This is nothing new.  If he was in trouble, Coralcifer would have let us know.”

 

She sighed and nodded.  “True.  Alright – thanks, Boyd.  Get some sleep.”

 

Boyd left, taking Deaton with him, and Stiles decided it was time for bed herself.  She was looking forward to sleeping in a real bed again.  Before she could sleep, though, she had to make the night rounds; make sure everything and everyone was safe and secure.

 

She checked all the doors and windows, checked with Coralcifer, and then helped Jennifer get settled in her new bed.  She tucked the covers down around the ex-witch, knowing full well how old bones ached when the slightest chill got to them.  She even settled a sleeping cap atop the wispy-haired old head to help retain body heat.

 

“Need anything else?” she asked, patting the blankets.

 

“No,” Jennifer answered with a soft smile.  “I’m fine.”

 

“Alright.”  Stiles sighed.  “Goodnight, then.”

 

She turned to leave and stopped when Jennifer said, “You’re in love.”

 

Stiles glanced back over her shoulder in trepidation.  Coralcifer had passed a message to Boyd from Derek to find the recipe for a potion in one of his books; make it and then give it to Jennifer.  Boyd had done so and it seemed that lucidity had finally returned to the old witch.

 

“Don’t deny it,” Jennifer teased.  “You’ve been sighing all day.”

 

Stiles… settled down onto the foot of the bed and _sighed_.

 

“See there?” Jennifer murmured.  “I knew it.”

 

Stiles snorted softly.  She looked over at the other woman.  “Have _you_ ever been in love before?”

 

“A woman my age falls in love many times,” Jennifer replied.  “I’m _still_ in love.”

 

Stiles gaped at her.

 

Jennifer grinned, delighted.  “Beautiful young men and women are so damned _difficult_ to deal with – but their _hearts?_   Their hearts, I just _adore_.  So full of life and passion and power!”

 

Stiles made a face at her.  “You’re terrible!”

 

“They’re _cute_ , too,” she crooned.

 

Unwillingly amused, Stiles chuckled.

 

Her laughter cut off when the muffled sound of a siren filtered into the house.  “The hell is that?!”

 

“It’s an air raid siren,” Jennifer answered.  “I haven’t heard one since the last major fighting – when I _was_ the reason for the sirens.”

 

Stiles grimaced, but she got up from the bed and went to the window, pulling the curtain aside for a look at what might possibly be out there.

 

“It’s that battleship you mentioned that you and Derek stumbled across,” Jennifer continued.  “It’s a long ways off, but he’s gotten warning to the towns closest to it and, now, this one.  Still, you better not go outside tonight, dear.  Peter’s henchmen will be out there, looking everywhere for this place.”

 

Stiles sighed and pulled the curtain tightly shut.  She turned around and glanced at Coralcifer, on the other side of the room.  The fire demon had insisted on the new green sofa being perched directly in front of the fireplace, providing a barrier so Jennifer couldn’t stare creepily at her when the old witch’s privacy curtain was open.  Stiles’ straight-backed chair was settled beside the sofa, providing a scant bit more covering.

 

“What a good fire,” Jennifer approved, following Stiles’ gaze.  “She keeps this place so well hidden.”

 

“That she does,” Stiles agreed.  “Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight, dear.”

 

Stiles pulled the privacy curtain as he walked away, turning her bed space into a little room of her own, and went over to Coralcifer.

 

“There’s heavy fighting going on,” Coralcifer told her somberly.  “The area between California and Oregon is burned to nothing, now, and the fighting is heading this way.”

 

Stiles sighed and nodded.  “To be expected.  Are Peter’s henchwizards out there?”

 

“ _Henchwizards?_ ”

 

Stiles made a face and the fire demon snorted amusement before sighing with a grimace.  Her fiery face morphed into a flurry of green and blue flames.  “Yes, the _henchwizards_ are out there.  The town is literally crawling with them.  Derek was being foolish when he said there was a chance Peter wouldn’t track us to Beacon Hills.”

 

Stiles shivered.  “Alright.  Do you need anything?”

 

“Few more logs wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“Greedy thing,” she commented, but piled some on the hearth for Coralcifer.

 

Coralcifer grinned at her.  “Thanks for indulging me, Stiles.”

 

“You’re welcome; goodnight.”

 

“’Night.”

 

A few minutes later, Stiles was snuggled into her warm and cozy bed.

 

Hopefully, she’d be able to stop worrying long enough to get a few hours of sleep.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

A few days later, word of the fighting and its projected path reached Beacon Hills.  Most of the townspeople decided discretion was the better part of valor and evacuated.

 

Boyd, in his old man disguise and with Deaton at his heels, stepped out the front door mid-morning to run a few errands just as a military-service motorcar pulled up driven by a liveried soldier.  A lady sat in the passenger seat beside him.

 

Deaton, to Boyd’s surprise, ducked out of sight behind him.

 

The lady – dressed in a pale pink dress and wearing a flowered hat on her brunette head – stepped out of the car.  When she looked up at him, Boyd saw Stiles’ brown eyes glaring up at him from a square-jawed, beautiful face.

 

“Can I help you, lady?” he asked, gruff and foreboding.

 

“I’m here to see my sister, Mieczysława Stilinski,” she said.  “Who are you?”

 

“We don’t have anyone here by that name.”

 

“She goes by ‘Stiles’.”

 

Boyd blinked in surprise, and then scowled.

 

“I’ll let her know you’re here, ma’am,” he said, and scooted back through the front door of the vacant shop.

 

He ran, Deaton following, and bolted out into the courtyard.  The door to the castle was open and Stiles was already there with a pail of old scraps for the birds to eat up.

 

“Stiles!” he shouted, gaining the old woman’s attention.  “There’s a strange lady in here!”

 

“I’m not strange!  I’m her sister!” the woman’s voice shouted, coming through the shop.

 

Stiles gasped, straightening in surprise as the other lady appeared.  “ _Allison?_ ”

 

The younger woman gave a whimpering sob of emotion and screamed, “ _Stiles!_ ”

 

She ran forward and tackled Stiles through the door while Boyd let out a shout of surprise.

 

Stiles fetched up against the stone steps inside, the breath squeezed out of her by the strength of Allison’s hug.  She was too happy to give a damn, though, so she hugged her sister back.

 

“Allie,” she murmured, inhaling the scent of sugar and cocoa and Allison as she snuggled into her sister’s embrace.

 

“Oh, my God, you _are_ here!” Allison cried.  She pulled back and Stiles gave a soft whine of distress at the tears spilling from her sister’s eyes.  “Someone thought they saw you and we’ve been so _worried_ and—!”

 

“I’m fine, Allie!  Allison, I’m _fine_ ,” Stiles interrupted.

 

“You’re _old!_   Is that the thing that happened you couldn’t go into detail about?”

 

Stiles nodded.  “I’m not allowed to talk about it, but it’s okay now.  Allison, what happened?  Why was the shop closed and it and the house up for sale?  Where’s _Dad?_ ”

 

Allison winced.  “We’d better go inside.”

 

Stiles made a grating, terrified sound and hauled herself upright before dragging her sister up and into the house.

 

Allison looked around.  “Have you redecorated?”

 

“Not what’s important right now!” Stiles snapped.  “Allison!  _Dad?_ ”

 

Allison winced again.  “He… he’s alright, Stiles.  He just – he was so worried about you, so sad, he had a small heart attack—“

 

Stiles let out a cry of pain and fright, staggering.  Allison caught her up in a hug, steadying her.

 

“He’s alright!  I swear, he’s alright!  He’s moved in with me and Scott.  He… he was convinced he’d lost you.  He searched everywhere for you, but he couldn’t _find_ you.  And then he got sick and… well.  He couldn’t bear to stay in this place anymore with the memory of Claudia _and_ you haunting him.”

 

“ _But I sent letters!_ ” Stiles shouted, tears soaking her weathered face.  “I sent letters to prove I was alright!”

 

Allison gave her a confused look.  “Did you send any to me?  To Lydia?”

 

“Yes, of course!”

 

“We never got them, Stiles.  I promise: I haven’t gotten a single letter from you and neither did Dad.  I can’t speak for Lydia, but I know _we_ never got anything.  Well, nothing beyond that one note that said ‘something happened, need a wizard’ and then you were just _gone_.  Honestly, I could _clobber_ you!  You couldn’t have given us more than that?”

 

“What part of ‘can’t talk about it’ do you _not_ get?!” Stiles shouted.  “Seriously?  _Nothing_ came to you?”

 

Allison crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

 

Stiles shuddered.  She leaned around Allison, who sighed and got out of the way to go lay a small purse on the dining table while her sister glared at Boyd.

 

“I put them into the Post Office!” Boyd snapped at Stiles.  “I wouldn’t tamper with your mail – especially not to family!  I showed you the receipts, remember?”

 

Stiles clutched at her hair, growling in frustration, and then slumped.  She nodded.  “Yes, you did.  I… Boyd, I’m sorry.”

 

He nodded, relenting.  “It’s okay.  I understand.”

 

Stiles gave a shivering sigh and scrubbed at her face as she turned to her sister.  “Allie…”

 

Allison came to her for a hug.  “Oh, Stiles.”

 

They clung to each other, hugging it out.  When they pulled apart, Stiles gave her sister a wan grin and said, “Hi, Allie.  So, something happened to me.”

 

Allison snorted and gently touched her sister’s face.  “I can see that.  God, you look like Grandma Hatter.”

 

“You take that back!”

 

Allison snickered.  Mildred Hatter had been Claudia’s mother and a more hidebound, strict, sourpuss of an old woman couldn’t have been found if they’d tried.  She’d adopted Allison and Lydia as her granddaughters along with Claudia’s daughter, citing it as her moral duty to all three girls.  She’d done her best to stifle their creativity and vivaciousness for the sake of prudence and sensibility, right up until she’d popped off from a stroke one day.  None of them would admit it, but they’d all been relieved to finally be free of the joyless old woman’s attempt at controlling them.

 

Stiles grinned, and then shook her head.  “You’re _sure_ he’s—?”

 

“Dad is _fine_ , Stiles – and he’ll be even better once he knows you’re alive.”

 

Stiles let out a shaky breath and nodded.  “Yeah, okay.  I can’t… there are things going on right now that make it dangerous for me to come see him, but tell him I’ll do it as soon as I can.”

 

“Alright.  Oh, before I forget, you’ll be happy to know: when Dad was investigating your disappearance, he found out what a creep Harris had been to you.  Adrian disappeared before Dad could arrest him, but he’s effectively banned from Beacon Hills forever.  You won’t have to worry about him creeping on you ever again!”

 

Stiles snorted.  “That’s good to know.  I mean… he had moments of decency, but they were few and far between.”

 

“Fewer and farther than you _want_ to know,” Allison agreed.  “But never mind him.  He’s gone, the girls all have new jobs – oh!  You’ll like this: Erica has somehow become this stunning beauty!  Her shaking sickness is under control and she looks positively _radiant_.  She’s become the favored girl and she works at Mahealani’s with me.  We’re raking in money by the bucket load because all of the besotted young men and women come in to buy candy and cookies from her.”

 

Stiles blinked, and then asked, “By any chance, did she get one of the hats from the shop as a parting gift?”

 

Allison’s eyes widened.  “Yes, she did.  What do you know about that?”

 

“Nothing,” Stiles murmured, “only that I think it couldn’t have gone to a better young lady.”

 

After all, she _had_ talked that hat into a destiny of helping a young lady in desperate need of confidence and grace, hadn’t she?

 

Allison gave her sister a long look, and then shrugged.  “Yes, well, you surfaced just in time.  Scott formally asked me to marry him and the wedding is in a week!”

 

Stiles’ jaw dropped in a boorish gape.  It only got worse when Allison held up her left hand and wiggled her fingers, an obscenely large diamond flashing in the firelight coming from the hearth.

 

“How on earth did he afford _that?_ ” Stiles squawked.

 

Allison dimpled.  “He’s been subsisting on scraps, just about, because he’s been saving up everything for my engagement ring and our wedding bands.  He—“  She broke off as she finally took notice of the snoring old woman perched on the sofa in front of the fireplace.  “Who is _that?_ ”

 

“Just a tired old lady,” Stiles answered.  “Take it from me: I know.  So, what’s this about you getting _married?_ ”

 

“He proposed a week after you left.  We wanted to wait until you’d been found or come home to us, but… well…”

 

Allison went pink-cheeked and she cupped her hands over her low abdomen in a meaningful way.

 

Stiles let out a shrill squeak and her knees went out from under her.  Allison and Boyd caught her and held her upright.

 

“You’re _pregnant?!_ ” Stiles shouted.

 

“Well, it’s not the end of the _world_ ,” Allison snapped.  “So we’re ahead of schedule, is all!”

 

Stiles let out a very rude noise and Allison rolled her eyes.

 

“ _Dad_ is alright with it, so you’ve got no call to be making such a fuss!” she warned Stiles.

 

“Yeah, well, he _would_ be – he’s only been hinting at wanting a passel of grandchildren for _ages_.”

 

Allison grinned.  “I can’t speak for you or Lydia, but Scott and _I_ will certainly do our best to give them to him.”

 

Stiles made a face.  “Don’t wanna know.”

 

“You might, though.   
We… you remember the Beacon Hills Inn?”

 

Stiles made a noise and a ‘go on’ gesture.

 

“Well, someone finally called in an anonymous tip on that bastard, Lahey senior.  He got arrested and put in prison, so Isaac – his son – has control of the Inn now.  He tried to court me once he was free of his father, but Scott was already there, and… well, they became really good friends and then _we_ got to be really good friends, and now there’s three of us a tight-knit group.  Don’t look at me like that!  It’s not what you think!  Anyway, when Scott and I wanted to get our own place, Isaac gifted partial ownership of the Inn to us as a wedding gift so we’re _all_ there now, including Dad.  There’s plenty of room for us and for _you_.”

 

Stiles gawped, stunned.

 

“We love you, Stiles,” Allison whispered, taking her sister’s hands in hers.  “I want you to come live with us.  You won’t have to stay here and work as some old cleaning lady.  Come be with family.”

 

Slowly, Stiles shook her head.

 

Allison gripped Stiles’ hands tighter and opened her mouth to speak, but then blinked and frowned down at the hands she held.  She let out a squeak of shock and rubbed her thumb over the ring on Stiles’ left hand.

 

“You got married?!” she shrieked, wide-eyed with surprise.

 

“What?  No!”

 

Allison jiggled Stiles’ left hand and tapped the ring on her finger.  “Stiles, nobody puts a ring on _this_ finger without meaning of the marrying kind!”

 

“Shows what you know!”

 

Allison shook her head.  “Whoever put that there wants to keep you.  Don’t you think you better take them up on that offer before it’s too late?  The fact you were lucky enough to find _somebody_ to put up with you is nothing short of a miracle!  I was beginning to think I’d have to go to Wizard Howl and ask for his help in finding someone for you!”

 

Stiles made a horrid gurgling noise as she simultaneously attempted to be insulted, outraged, and hysterically amused all at once.

 

Seeing her sister’s struggle, Allison realized the callousness of her comment and flinched.   “Okay, I’m sorry – that came out wrong.  It’s just that I’ve been worried about you for a long time, Stiles.  You seemed determined to stay left behind while _we_ all got on with our lives.  It never had to be that way, eldest or not.”

 

“Yes, well, it’s all moot now.  And, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll stay put.  Just tell Dad… tell him the truth: I’m fine and, what’s more, I like where I am and what I’m doing.  I’m useful and, more importantly, I’m wanted – which is more than I’d ever expected.”

 

Allison gave her a skeptic glance.  “ _Really?_ ”

 

Stiles rolled her eyes.  “ _Yes_ , really.  But, now you know where I am—“

 

“Yes, with _bombs_ about to fall!  We’re leaving for Los Angeles, Stiles.  Come _with_ us—“

 

“—so you can get in contact whenever you like,” Stiles finished.  “I’ll want to know when the baby’s born.”

 

“Not for another eight months, but Stiles!  Be reasonable!”

 

“I’ve been reasonable for a very long time.  You want me to live the life I want?  That’s just what I’m doing.”

 

“ _Here?_ ”

 

“Here.”

 

The siblings eyed each other for a few moments.  Then, Allison sighed and hugged her sister, who returned it.

 

“Alright, then, be like that,” she muttered.  “But if you get your damn fool self blown up, and make Dad cry again, I’ll never forgive you!”

 

“You do that,” Stiles muttered, and walked her out.

 

It wasn’t until Allison had gotten in the car and driven away that Stiles realized Allison had called her a ‘cleaning lady’ – but if Allison hadn’t known where she was all this time, how could she have known _that?_   And wasn’t that a Californian soldier at the wheel of that car – a soldier that had looked eerily like that creepy blond page boy of Peter Hale’s?

 

Rushing back inside, she found Jennifer sitting in the chair, but now with smoke filling the room as the old woman puffed on a cigar.  Coralcifer was spitting more smoke, groaning, and the little purse Allison had been carrying and had left behind lay on the floor with its contents emptied.

 

“Jennifer!” Stiles snapped, striding up to her.  “Did Allison leave that on purpose?”

 

“You left your hat behind when we escaped,” Jennifer answered, drawing on the cigar with pleasure.  “Hale would have been able to find your family and your home through that.  Don’t worry; it’s been taken care of.  And now she’s done her duty, your pretty sister will be safe.”

 

Stiles shuddered.  “Oh, God.  Peter is… is…”

 

“A power-hungry magic user just like the rest of us?  Oh, yes.  He hides behind patriotic speeches and well-meaning rhetoric, and the shield of the Californian crest, but we both know _he’s_ the one wearing the crown, don’t we?  Hale talks a good game, but he wants the same thing we all want: power and obedience and submission.  He’s obsessed with Derek because he never got that from his nephew, even before the fire.  Derek is a challenge, especially now that he’s wrested the Alpha power from his uncle.  He’s a game and one that Peter intends to win.”

 

“Just like you?”

 

Jennifer smirked at Stiles.  “Just like me.”

 

Stiles let out a growl of frustration and stomped away to go clean breakfast dishes.

 

“Will you leave, too?”

 

The petulant tone of Boyd’s voice brought her around, her arms covered in suds nearly to the elbow.  Still in his disguise, the young man glared at her through an old man’s eyes.

 

“What?” Stiles barked.

 

“Your sister said she wanted you to live with her now, _Mieczysława_ ,” Boyd sneered.  “Will you be leaving, too?”

 

“First off: I prefer Stiles.  Why my parents chose to saddle me with that hellacious moniker, I’ll never understand.  Second of all: I will not!  You heard me tell her no and, now that I know she was under duress from Peter, I won’t set foot out of this castle.  Hale would try to use any of us to get to Derek.”

 

Boyd made a rough noise and pushed back the hood of his cloak.  His disguise fell away, revealing a pained expression.

 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to go,” he confessed.  “Things are better with you here.  You’re sarcastic and nosy and you whine a lot, but things are so much better.  Derek’s smiles are real, now.  I get to eat all the time.  Coralcifer is more relaxed and you even got the Witch of the Waste to behave!”

 

Stiles snorted.  “Why, Boyd, you paint me as some kind of saint!”

 

She let out a peep of shock as he surged forward, taking hold of her shoulders.

 

“Things are _better_ with you,” Boyd said.  “You _have_ to stay.  We’re a family now.”

 

Family meant everything to a young orphan – and to a woman who’d been lonely for more than a life as the _eldest_.

 

“Yes,” Stiles agreed softly.  “We’re a family.”

 

Boyd grinned, relieved, and let her pull him into a hug.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

 

A few hours later, as the sun began setting and long ships floated down the river carrying people and things away, Derek Hale’s small family gathered around the fire.

 

Or, tried to, but no matter how hard Stiles pumped the bellows into the logs, Coralcifer wouldn’t rise from beneath them and remained unresponsive.  Thick clouds of noxious smoke filled the air from the cigar Jennifer had been smoking all afternoon and Boyd sat cross-legged on the sofa, reading one of the local papers.

 

“Says we won,” he said, rattling the news rag.

 

“Only idiots believe what they read in the paper,” Jennifer opined.  “I’ll bet you anything Oregon papers have declared _their_ nation the winner in this no-win war.”

 

“Take your word for it,” he muttered, and went back to reading.

 

Stiles let out a disgusted sound.  “I can’t get Coralcifer going!  Can fire demons even get sick?”

 

“Sure,” Boyd answered.  “Usually if they’re poisoned with something – but nobody here would do that.  It’d hurt Master Derek.”

 

Stiles grimaced, and then glared at Jennifer.  “Do you _have_ to keep smoking that nasty thing?  It smells terrible!”

 

Jennifer smirked at her and winked.  “Don’t deny an old witch her pleasures, young lady.”

 

Stiles – who looked more like a fifty-year old woman these days than a ninety-year old one – snorted.  “Boyd, crack a window, will you?”

 

“Sure thing!” He hopped up, tossing the paper aside, and ran to the window over by Jennifer’s bed and pushed it open.

 

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, dear,” Jennifer called to Boyd.  “Coralcifer’s too weak right now to protect this place.  Hale’s henchmen _could_ get in.”

 

Stiles gasped in alarm and took a step forward.  “Boyd!”

 

Without warning, bombs fell and Beacon Hills exploded.

 

The house shook and rattled with enough force to knock pottery and dishware from shelves, shattering across the floor as masonry dust sifted from new cracks and crevices.  Stiles was knocked off her feet while Boyd clung to the window casing.

 

Only moments later, Stiles was up on her feet and across the room, yanking Boyd back and slamming the window shut.  “Get back!”

 

She drew the curtains shut across the window – but not before she saw a massive, bird-shaped battle-plane fly overhead.  It was shaped nothing like California ships, which favored tapered formations.  This was an Oregonian ship and the Californian town of Beacon Hills was in its path.

 

More bombs fell as Stiles and Boyd raced for the door and out into the courtyard.  Already sparks and smoke were filling the air from the nearby fires.

 

“Get back inside!” Stiles ordered him.  “Be prepared to defend the place.  I’m going to check on the shop!”

 

Boyd nodded and bolted back inside while Stiles, her body returning to full vigor and youth, ran through the attached shop and out the front door.  Down the street, people and sirens were wailing as buildings burned.

 

She had no time to consider rushing to help them.  Monstrous forms in Californian military green were converging on the steps of the shop.  Black, nebulous faces adorned by scarlet masks bulged and shifted as the blob men stuffed into the uniforms shambled toward her.

 

“ _Seriously?!_ ” Stiles shouted at the henchwizards.  “There are _bombs_ falling on us!  Why can’t you help the people instead; maybe put out a few fires?!”

 

She fled back through the door and slammed it shut, locking it, but Peter’s monsters went gooey and began pushing through the small spaces between the doors.  Realizing they wouldn’t hold up against the force attacking them, Stiles turned and ran like mad through the shop.  Just as she reached the courtyard, she heard the doors shatter inward and the stampeding rush of the creatures racing after her.

 

She never made it to the castle door – but not because of Peter’s monsters.

 

Looking up, she saw another Oregon ship fly overhead and release its cargo of bombs.  She froze in her tracks as she saw one of the bombs tilt, drop, and aim directly for the courtyard.

 

Stiles slumped back against the wall, her heart pounding as she realized she was well and truly about to die.

 

And then, her heart lurched when she saw a furred, winged form fly out of the darkness and attach itself to the bomb.

 

“ _Derek!_ ” she screamed.  “ _No!_ ”

 

She was knocked back into the wall, showered by debris and sparks and smoke as the other bombs unleashed lit up a chain of explosions and fires all around the Hatter place.  The percussive force was astounding, deafening her and taking her breath away, and Stiles thought the final bomb would be a blessing as the end would at least be quick.

 

But it had taken too long in getting there.  It should have hit by now, she knew, and as the smoke and dust cleared she saw the bomb lodged deep into the dirt of the courtyard but inert.  As she watched, Derek wearily lifted his head to meet her gaze and smiled at her from his misshapen werewolf face.  Thick fangs looked sharp and menacing in a blunt snub of a snout.   Red eyes glowed from beneath a heavy shelf-ridge of brow, but the warmth of his regard for her was the most prominent part of him. 

 

“Derek,” Stiles grit out through clenched teeth, and stumbled forward as Derek climbed down off the massive bomb.

 

The two of them met in a strong hug, holding each other as tight as they could.  Derek rested his fur-covered cheek against Stiles’ silver hair.  The fur coating his neck tickled her face as she snuggled in.

 

“Derek,” she whispered.  “Wow.  Oh, wow – _Derek_.”

 

Derek sighed, tightening his hold a little bit more.  “Sorry, Stiles – I should’ve gotten here sooner.”

 

She lifted her head so she could meet Derek’s gaze and found the black-fur bedecked wizard staring at her with a look of stunned amazement.  She grinned and let out a little laugh.

 

“You’re _alive_ ,” Stiles crowed.  “I’ll take it!”

 

Derek pulled her in tight again for another hug and Stiles took that, too.  Her heart thumped at the satisfied, contented sigh Derek let loose; as if he were home, as if he were precisely where he most needed to be – there in Stiles’ arms.

 

Groaning and squelching caught their attention, and they looked over to see the gooey tadpole monsters squeezing through the skinny door of the shop. 

 

“Weren’t those things the Witch of the Waste’s?” Stiles asked, her hands curling into Derek’s thick fur.

 

“When Peter took away her powers, he got to keep whatever he acquired,” Derek answered, his voice thick in his snout and weak with exhaustion.  “If I’d defeated him magically, I’d have hers _and_ his powers now.  Should have thought of that.”

 

“You were fighting him while he was an Alpha _and_ had his powers plus hers?  I’m amazed any of us actually survived.”

 

As they spoke, Derek shifted his grip to escort Stiles to the door.  He folded his wings up along his back and his tail – a mix of feathers and fur – swept the ground as they walked through the castle door.  With a flap of his wings, he lifted Stiles up and carried her over to the fireplace as a burst of magic swept Peter’s monsters out of the castle and sealed the door shut behind them.

 

“Master Derek!  Stiles!” Boyd looked utterly relieved to see them.

 

The main room looked like a disaster area: debris everywhere and smoke filling the room.  Jennifer stayed silent as Derek went straight to Coralcifer and coaxed her up out of the flames with a lifting motion of his clawed hand.

 

“Coralcifer!  Hang in there!” he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

Coralcifer – dark purple in color – rose up, up; swelled like a balloon and then barfed a cloud of smoke that sparked and faded out as her color returned to red-orange.  She sprawled across her logs, groaning.

 

“Derek,” she whined, “she fed me something _gross_.”

 

“Just a peeping bug,” Jennifer murmured, watching the pretty fire.  “Peter saw fit to send a present along with Stiles’ sister.”

 

Derek turned to her, taller in his hybrid avian-wolf form.  He loomed over her and smirked as he asked, “Tell me: was that cigar a present from him, too?  The smoke is thick, heavy… very _smothering_ and taking oxygen away from a hungry fire – and that _without_ the wolfsbane it came loaded with.”

 

“Wolfsbane?” Stiles squeaked, wide-eyed with surprise and worry.

 

Boyd shook his head.  “Master Derek has very specific wards up for wolfsbane.  We need to keep some on hand for emergencies and potions, so any of it that comes into the house without our permission is immediately vanished.  Too bad the spell didn’t take the whole cigar with it.  Coralcifer is suffocating.”

 

Stiles patted his shoulder when she saw how distressed he was while he looked at the weakened fire demon.

 

Jennifer drew on the cigar and then exhaled a cloud of smoke to wreath around Derek.  She slumped to the side, smirking, and rested an elbow on a sofa’s arm and her jowly cheek on her fist.

 

“Why, if it isn’t Wizard _Howl_ ,” she purred.  “I think you and I need to have a nice, long, heart-to-heart chat.”

 

Derek bent and held his right hand out to her, palm up, claws wicked and sharp at his fingertips.  “You’re right: we need to talk, but it will have to wait.  Right now, there’s a war going on.”

 

Jennifer drew on the cigar again, exhaled another cloud of smoke, and stubbed the cigar out in his hand.  She ground it into his palm, snuffing the flame and the tobacco, while sparks sizzled; protective magic keeping him from being badly hurt while the suffocating spell wrapped in the cigar was extinguished.

 

“Not running away?” the old witch taunted.  “How unlike you, Derek.  Finally grew a pair?”

 

He ignored her jab and curled his hand around the cigar stub, burning it to fine ash with a flare of power.  He gave her a mocking little bow and then turned to go to Stiles.

 

Stiles shivered as claw-tipped hands wrapped carefully over her shoulders.  She looked up into green eyes that watched her with warm intensity and a thrilling tenderness that was faint, but there.

 

“Stay here,” Derek ordered.  “Coralcifer will protect you from Peter’s henchmen.

 

“Henchwizards,” Stiles corrected without thought.

 

Derek rolled his eyes.  He squeezed her shoulders and then stroked gently.  “I’ll stay on patrol out there.”

 

He let go of her and headed for the door.

 

Stiles blinked once, twice, and then raced after him.  She stopped him halfway down the steps to the door, pressing herself against his back.  She wrapped her arms around Derek’s torso, holding tight, pressing her hands tight to his chest.  She imagined that the fur was too thick to allow her to feel Derek’s heartbeat, no matter how hard she held him.

 

“No!” she snapped.  “Derek, don’t go out there!  It’s too dangerous.  I know you’re a powerful wizard, I know you’re fast, but there’s too much coming from every direction!”

 

“Exactly,” Derek agreed, turning to look over his shoulder at Stiles.  “Another wave’s coming and Coralcifer’s too weak to stop the bombs.”

 

“So let’s do what you do best: let’s _run_.”

 

“I think… I think my days of running are over, Stiles.  I have something I’m willing to stand my ground for.”

 

Stiles’ heart lurched in her chest at the sweet smile he gave her with his blunt snout.

 

“It’s you,” Derek confirmed.

 

He used Stiles’ shock to pull free of her hold and bolt out the door, taking flight the instant he was clear.

 

Stiles ran out after him, bellowing at him to get his fuzzy butt back there right now, but it was no use.  Derek angled and soared off into the sky, vanishing from sight, and Stiles was left to stare after him in a welter of emotion.

 

Moaning and groaning caught her attention and she looked around.  Peter’s henchwizards were oozing out of the woodwork, literally – and the walls and the ground, gathering their strength for another charge.

 

Stiles spat an obscene curse at them and ran back inside, slamming the door shut and locking it.  She held the door, which rattled and shook as the monsters tried to get in.  She debated in her mind a choice of actions for a few moments, but knowing that Derek would prefer them to stay safe, she twisted the knob and spun the color wheel to Wasteland green.  Immediately, the glow of red from the fires vanished and was replaced by gloomy gray.

 

Cautiously hopeful, Stiles cracked the door open… and was greeted by the sound of heavy rain, the cool breeze of the Wasteland hill air, and the sight of no monsters.

 

Flinging the door open, she ran out into the rain, stumbling over rocks.  She ran to a rock outcropping and stared in horror at the sight of Beacon Hills miles below them.  It was red and gold with flame, every familiar thing she knew burning to nothing.  As she watched, another Oregon ship sped over the town and dropped more bombs – but it, too, was burning and smoking as a monstrous, winged black wolf perched atop it tore it apart.

 

From the hills, Stiles could still see the glowing red eyes and massive fangs; could hear the beast howling.  She watched Derek tear the ship apart and watched Peter’s flying tadpole henchwizards cluster around the ship and Derek, trying to tear him off of it.

 

Stiles screamed in denial as the ship burst into a fireball and plummeted to the ground with Derek riding it down.

 

Boyd dashed out of the castle, Deaton at his heels.  “What’s going on?!  Hey!  Turnip-Head!”

 

Stiles whipped around and, yes, there the sodden scarecrow was.  His tattered black suit hung limp on his wooden frame as he bounced in place.

 

 _You’ll have to stay behind_ , she heard Derek’s voice say in her memory, and an idea clicked in her head.

 

She ran back into the castle, past Boyd, and shouted, “I have an idea!  Boyd, I need your help!”

 

Boyd followed her back in and Stiles raced over to the fireplace.  She grabbed her woolen shawl from the coatrack near the fire and tossed it to Boyd.  “Put that on her and get her outside!”

 

To the fire demon, Stiles said, “You’re leaving that hearth, Coralcifer!”

 

Coralcifer gave her a ferocious glower.  “You are out of your sorry little mind!”

 

“I’m not!  If you leave the hearth, the connection to the castle is broken.  If _that_ connection is broken, then so are the portals – and if we’re no longer connected to the house or the shop, then Derek won’t stay and risk his life protecting us!”

 

“I can’t move the portals without Derek’s help!” Coralcifer protested, pulling more wood into her flames.

 

“We _have_ to try!  If we don’t, then Derek will stay there and eventually he’ll be overpowered; taken or killed!”  Stiles shook her head and turned to Jennifer, now wrapped in Stiles’ shawl.  She fished a kerchief out of her skirt pocket and tied it over the old woman’s head for added protection.  “I preferred him as a coward!  At least then, we had _something_ in common!”

 

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Jennifer mumbled from within the shawl.  “You’re quite plucky, you know.”

 

“Don’t say that,” Stiles begged.  “The last time you said that, I turned into a ninety-year old woman!”

 

Jennifer chortled, phlegmy and deep.

 

Stiles grimaced and tugged her up onto her feet.  “C’mon, old gal – up you go!”

 

“Are we going for a stroll?” Jennifer murmured, her voice weak with confusion.  The anti-senility potion helped her, true, but as Derek had promised: the best it did was slow down the loss of coherency.  “Okay.  Okay.”

 

“If we do this, we’ll be too vulnerable!” Coralcifer shouted.

 

“We already are!” Stiles shouted back.  “If we don’t move quick, Derek doesn’t have a chance – and where does that leave _you?_ ”

 

“Oh – so you finally believe me about the connection!”

 

“I always did.  You were right – is that what you need to hear?  You were right!  But now, there’s no choice.” 

 

“ _Stiles!_ ” Boyd shouted, rushing up the stairs.  He’d gone back outside while Stiles got Jennifer ready.  “They’re about to bomb the hat shop!”

 

Stiles passed Jennifer to Boyd.  “Get her outside, Boyd, and move as far away as you can!”

 

“Right!”  He put an arm around the hunched old woman and offered her a hand, leading her to the stairs.  “I’ve got you, ma’am.  You just come along with me, now.”

 

“What a pretty young man,” she murmured at him and gave him a daft smile.

 

Stiles turned and grabbed up the ash shovel, holding it out to Coralcifer.  “You’re coming with us – hop on!”

 

Coralcifer flared.  “I _can’t!_   No one but Derek can take me out of this hearth!”

 

“There’s no time to lose, Coralcifer.  You’re coming out of that hearth,” Stiles said, putting every ounce of conviction she could into her voice.  “You’re coming out of there because you know you have to and you know you can do this.  You’re a _fire demon_ ; great and powerful and strong enough to hold a wizard _and_ do his dirty work for him!  If you can do that, you can do this; you just have to want it bad enough and I think you do because doing it means you’ll live!”

 

With that, she jammed the shovel deep into the coals of Coralcifer’s firewood.  She got the metal of the flat shovel under the lumpy core of Coralcifer’s fiery form and yanked her up and out of the hearth.

 

“No!” Coralcifer shouted, flaring.  “No, no, no!  Don’t do this!  Crazy lady with a shovel!”

 

Stiles ran for the door where Boyd was just getting Jennifer outside.

 

“If you take me out that door,” Coralcifer spat, “the castle could _collapse!_ ”

 

“Good!” Stiles snapped back, and the fire demon shrank down against the shovel holding her.

 

Stiles went down the stairs in quick little hops.  Coralcifer sighed and said, “Stiles… I really _don’t_ know what will happen if you take me out of here, so make sure I’m the last to leave.”

 

Stiles nodded.  She turned her back and edged out of the door with Coralcifer held out on the shovel.

 

The instant Coralcifer crossed the threshold, the castle imploded.

 

The massive metal structure fell in on itself; pipes and bolts and parts burst apart.  Through the doorway, they saw the room vanish into nothing and then fill with tumbling lumber and masonry.  Outside, domes and bulkheads fell off and smokestacks came crashing down.

 

Standing out in the pouring rain, getting drenched, everyone watched in silent horror as Howl’s Moving Castle turned into a debris field.

 

“I _told_ you it would collapse!” Coralcifer moaned, and then gasped as she sizzled.  “Rain!  Rain!  _Rain!_ ”

 

Turnip-Head moved to lean over them, sheltering Coralcifer as best he could.  That was convenient, as it hid the glow of the fire demon from the approaching Oregonian airship that was en route to Beacon Hills to do battle with the creature that had destroyed its sister ship.

 

With the castle a darkened, powerless lump, the ship passed right over them and left them alone – it and the other ship that roared out of the darkness on its tail.

 

“Boyd, stay with her!” Stiles ordered the young man while pointing at the old ex-witch.  “Turnip-Head, help me find a way back in!”

 

Deaton ran to help Stiles and Turnip-Head while Boyd, holding Jennifer’s hand, said, “Don’t worry, ma’am – I’m gonna take good care of you.”

 

Working together, the trio found a way in through the wall that had been part of Stiles’ bedroom.  It was a short little climb to reach it.

 

“I don’t know if Jennifer can manage it, though,” Stiles muttered.  “I need Boyd free in case anything comes at us and he can go wolf on it.”

 

Turnip-Head hopped in place a little bit and somehow managed to pick up a chunk of debris with the tattered trouser legs of his suit.

 

Stiles squinted for a moment, and then nodded as she understood the scarecrow’s meaning.  “That’ll work.  Boyd!  Turnip-Head is going to come to you!”

 

“Alright!”

 

Stiles crawled through the rubble as Turnip-Head hopped to where Boyd and Jennifer stood in the rain.  Boyd whistled, low and approving, as the fat old woman was lifted easily by the scarecrow who hopped his way up the castle ruins and into the gaping hole.

 

Inside the castle, Stiles carried Coralcifer into the destroyed main room and set the shovel on the hearth.

 

“Leaking everywhere – it’s _damp_ here, Stiles!” Coralcifer shouted.

 

“I _know_ that; hang on!”  Stiles ran to where the collapsed wooden stairs were and yanked a few boards free.  Deaton, on her heels, used his mouth to take up a few extra sticks of lumber.

 

Stiles ran over and dumped the wood all over Coralcifer’s face.  Coralcifer sputtered and flared her way up to the top, and then stretched out a long lick of fire to take the wood Deaton offered from his doggy mouth and put it in her own.

 

Boyd led Jennifer inside and glanced around with a grimace.  “The castle’s a wreck!”

 

“Put her here, Boyd,” Stiles said, slamming a three-legged stool down in front of the hearth.

 

“Told ya we should’ve stayed put!” Coralcifer mumbled around the stick in her mouth.  “Derek and I could’ve handled it!”

 

She was interrupted as Stiles carried a section of wooden beam over and dropped it on her face.

 

Coralcifer’s filthy opinion of what she thought about _that_ filtered up from beneath.

 

“We have to tell Derek we’re not attached to the shop anymore,” Stiles said, watching as Coralcifer climbed up to the top of the wood pile again.  “Move the castle and take us to him!”

 

Coralcifer dodged a drip from the ceiling and looked at Stiles like the woman was crazy.  “ _What?_ ”

 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

 

“I _have_ to ‘cause I do actually think you’re nuts!” Coralcifer snapped.  “There’s no _chimney_ , in case you hadn’t noticed!  I keep getting dripped on and the wood is _damp_.  My _fuel_ is _watered down_ , Stiles!”

 

“Which would be a problem for an ordinary fire, but you’re not ordinary, are you?  I’ve never seen a fire with more spark – and you know how much I like your spark!”

 

“But…!”

 

“Only the best blaze brightest when the darkness is at its worst,” Stiles added.  “It’s dark enough and you are the best, so blaze, blast it!”

 

Coralcifer snorted.  “Good that you’ve finally figured out what you’re capable of, but that empowerment crap won’t work on me.  _Nobody_ really believes that nonsense.”

 

“Oh,” Jennifer crooned, approaching, “what a pretty fire.”

 

“Here,” Boyd said, taking the stool and moving it behind her.  “Why don’t you have a seat?”

 

“Except it _isn’t_ nonsense,” Stiles countered, her focus entirely on Coralcifer.  “You and Derek are both powerful beings in your own right.  Together, you accomplish the _impossible_.  Since I came here, I’ve seen so many things that I didn’t think could happen, even _with_ magic, and yet – you did it!  It can’t be nonsense if it’s _fact_ , Coralcifer.  You are strong, you are amazing, and you _can_ do this.”

 

Coralcifer and Stiles stayed locked in a staring contest until Coralcifer sighed her capitulation.

 

“Alright,” she agreed, “I’ll do my best – but whatever was in that peeping bug took a lot out of me and then there’s everything Derek’s going through.  No matter what you believe, even _I_ have my limits.  I’m going to need some outside help – and it’s going to be you.”

 

Stiles frowned.  “Why is that?”

 

“For starters: you’re the one that wants this!  For another thing: you’re the one that believes strongly enough to make this possible.  You keep talking about _my_ spark, but yours is nearly as strong.”

 

“ _Me?_ ”

 

“You – and now, I need you to give me part of yourself to boost my energy.  I can’t do this by myself, so I need your help.  How about your eyes?”

 

Stiles blinked and grimaced.  “Rather attached to them.”

 

“There’s at least a dozen sight spells for the blind and several different magical prosthesis.”

 

“I still don’t want to lose them if I don’t have to!  Can it be _any_ part of my body?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then, take this.”  Stiles reached back and caught hold of the thick plait of hair that hung down to the small of her back.  The hair was silver-white, shiny with youthful vigor and health.  She wondered, briefly, what it would have looked like loose.

 

Coralcifer didn’t give her time to find out.  She flared toward Stiles and caught hold of the braid with one fiery hand while fashioning the other hand into a pair of flaming scissors.  One snip, and the braid was neatly cut away from Stiles’ head.  The ribbon that had kept the scalp end tied down unraveled and fell away, leaving the remaining silver-white hair to fall down around Stiles’ face while Coralcifer consumed the offering given to her.

 

Coralcifer huddled in on herself… and then, exploded with brilliance and strength.  A torso and arms rose up out of the damp lumber, her demonic head atop new shoulders, and she shoved up into the ruined lumber above her, fitting her flaming head into the small remaining hole of the chimney.

 

All around the rest of the group, wind whipped and lighter-than-air debris flew.  The castle lurched and heaved upright, all extraneous material falling away or being dumped out.  Boyd leaped to the side, shouting, as a chunk of the floor tore away beside him.

 

In only a few moments, the core of the castle shoved free of all the extra parts it had shed and went skittering away over the Wastes toward Beacon Hills.  Turnip-Head hopped ahead, leading the way.

 

Through the gaping ruin of the floor, Stiles and Boyd knelt down to see the countryside passing by.

 

“Amazing!” Stiles exclaimed.  She turned to look at the massive, flaming monster in the hearth.  “Coralcifer – you’re fantastic!”

 

Coralcifer laughed.  Her echoing voice was thunderous as she said, “If you think _this_ is impressive, then imagine what I could’ve done with your eyes – or your heart!”

 

Stiles blinked, her jaw gaping as all of the puzzle pieces and clues _finally_ clicked together in her mind.  Truthfully, she’d suspected (she’d _known_ ), but if she’d broken the bond then Derek might already have been dead.

 

Her gaze fell to the hearth where the lumpy core of Coralcifer’s ephemeral being lay hidden in the hot coals of burning wood.

 

Jennifer tracked her gaze and let out a shrieking cry of glee.

 

“That’s it!  That’s where it’s hidden!” the ex-witch crowed.  “You didn’t _eat_ his heart – you _kept_ it!”

 

With that, she lumbered forward and shoved her hands into the fire and clutched Derek’s heart up out of the coals, holding it to her chest even as Stiles rushed to stop her.

 

Coralcifer screamed in terror and pain as she began to extinguish.

 

In that instant, the castle lost stability; tilted and wobbled like a drunken sailor along the rocky path of the Wastes while bits and parts fell off at an alarming rate.  Turnip-Head leaped and spun, landing on top and trying to help stabilize it.  Inside, everyone was screaming for different reasons as Stiles and Jennifer fought for Derek’s actual, physical heart.

 

The castle fell over the edge of small cliff and landed mostly upright.  In the few moments the castle took to right itself back onto its scrawny chicken legs, Jennifer tumbled away and splatted up against a wall.  Stiles was right after her, bellowing at her.

 

“Put it back!” she screamed.  “Put it back before you kill us all!”

 

“No!” Jennifer howled.  Tears spilled from her eyes as flames wreathed her body.  “It’s hot!  Oh!  It’s _hot!_ ”

 

“It’s a _fire demon!_ ” Stiles shouted, and reached in to try to pry the old witch’s hands from the pulsing organ.  “Let go!  You’re catching on fire!”

 

“ _No!_ ” Jennifer shrieked.  “ _It’s mine!  It’s mine!  It belongs to me!_ ”

 

Stiles began to scorch, lighting on fire herself.  Yelping in pain, she pulled away and did the first thing that came to mind: she snatched up a pitcher of water and flung it at the burning woman.

 

In an instant, Coralcifer was extinguished to almost nothing.  The only thing that remained was pure blue flame around the heart still clutched in Jennifer’s gnarled, fat hands.

 

Stiles, Boyd, and Jennifer all gaped at the blue glow in horror.

 

Deaton gave a sharp bark.

 

And the castle split apart.

 

Screaming commenced as everyone was tossed about, hither and yon.  Stiles was still in the hearth portion of the castle when it split in half.  The part Stiles was in began to topple into the chasm of the gorge the castle had been walking along the top of.

 

With another bark, Deaton leaped forward into Stiles’ arms.

 

“ _Stiles!_ ” Boyd shrieked, straining to reach, but it was too late.

 

The section of the castle containing the hearth and the front door plummeted away, smashing apart on the rocks.  Stiles’ terrified screams were cut off and all Boyd could do was kneel on the remnants of the floor as the castle walked him, Turnip-Head, Jennifer, and Derek’s heart away.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

In the bottom of the gorge, amid the debris of the castle, Stiles roused from unconsciousness – and immediately wished she hadn’t.

 

Kneeling amidst bits of broken wood and metal, Stiles looked around in shock.  She became aware of something cold and wet nudging her hand.  She looked down and saw Deaton, unscathed, nosing at her.

 

“I didn’t think,” Stiles whispered.  “I didn’t – I did – she was on fire – I did – I didn’t – I – Coralcifer – _Derek—!_ ”

 

Shuddering, shaking, she let out an anguished cry of grief.

 

As she bawled out her pain, Deaton was the only one to notice when the ring on Stiles’ finger flared light from the jewel, the beacon spell activating.  Deaton squeak-wheezed bounced against Stiles’ leg to draw her attention.  Stiles saw a thin blue beam of light emitting from her ring and vanishing behind debris near the rock wall of the gorge.

 

The light winked out only a moment later.

 

“No!” Stiles pled.  “No!  Please!  Is Derek still alive?”

 

The ring flared to blue light again; the color different from the first time she’d used the beacon.  Then, the light had been orange-red.  Now it was blue.  Stiles realized the ring was powered by Coralcifer; a subtle, but strong connection, and it wouldn’t have worked at all if Coralcifer was extinguished entirely.

 

She breathed out and cupped her left hand within her right.  “Coralcifer… hey.  I’m glad you’re still there.  Hang on; I’ll fix this.  Only… can you lead me to Derek?  I need him if I’m going to help both of you.”

 

The blue light formed a thin beam once more, leading toward the crumpled metal leaning up against the rock wall.  Stiles got up and went over to it, pushing it down and away, and revealed the frame of the front door.

 

“Blessings upon your house, indeed,” Stiles whispered, and opened the door.

 

The hinges creaked and groaned as the wooden door swung open to reveal the black void that only Derek had traversed prior to now.  A cold wind howled forth, rustling Stiles’ dress and her silver hair.  She shivered at the all-encompassing darkness.

 

The thin beam of blue light showed what looked to be smoke drifting past in the dark.  Hesitant, Stiles put her hand into the black and saw it ripple around her limb like water – but doing so didn’t hurt at all.  In fact, despite the cold wind, the void felt like… nothing.

 

Determined to help at all costs, Stiles focused her thoughts on Derek and walked into the darkness with Deaton at her heels.

 

Walking in the void was odd.  She could feel nothing, but her stride was steady as if she were walking on a solid surface.  The glow from the ring seemed to wreath her and Deaton as they traversed the darkness, following the beacon.

 

Out of the black, a glow appeared and finally took shape to reveal a simple room filled with a modest fire hearth, a table, a bed, and a containment chest.  Moonlight poured through the single window by a door.

 

Walking into the room, feeling like a ghost despite her footsteps suddenly making sound, Stiles looked at the rough-hewn wooden table and realized the things littered on it were spell books and papers full of notes.  A chipped mug sat by the wayside, filled with long-cold tea.

 

Scratching caught her attention and Stiles looked over to see the dog at the door.  “Deaton?”

 

A wheeze-bark and another scratch drew Stiles to the door.  She opened it, stepped out – and found herself on the little stone platform outside the cottage in the flower valley.

 

“What nonsense…?” she muttered, and then looked up at a flash of light.

 

She gasped.  Stars were falling in multitudes, streaking down out of a star-filled night sky.  The light that had been shining through the windows wasn’t moonlight, but the light of falling stars.

 

The ring on her finger tightened painfully and Stiles glanced down.  She was startled to find the metal had withered mostly away and what was left was trembling as the jewel flickered fitfully.

 

 _Coralcifer can’t hold this spell much longer_ , she thought, and looked around frantically for Derek.

 

And then, out in the grasses among the ponds, she saw a slender young man with black hair walking amid the falling stars, watching them come down around him just as a new wave of falling stars streaked overhead, lighting the sky.  He was joined a moment later as a glowing portal opened and a figure tumbled out.  He was on guard, clearly terrified, only for the fear to change into something different as he ran to the crumpled figure.  He scooped the person up and a young girl was revealed.  She was bloodied and wounded, badly injured, and she resembled the young man now holding her in trembling arms.

 

Everything coalesced in Stiles’ mind.  She realized she was in the past – Derek’s past – and she was seeing how Derek and Coralcifer had come to be.

 

Knowing he was almost out of time, Stiles skittered down the stone steps of the platform in the muddy grasses and ran like mad toward the very young wizard and the girl he held, with Deaton following as fast as he could.

 

As she ran, stars crashed down all around her.  The stars she saw hit the water assumed tiny spectral forms for a few moments, running along the top of the water, before splashing down and extinguishing.

 

Bogged down, caught in a tangle of mud and weeds, Stiles looked across a small pond in time to see Derek heft the girl into his arms and run to intercept a falling star.  He got right underneath it and caught it in one hand.  Red-orange sparks flared from a golden light as Derek spoke to it.  Stiles watched Derek speak quickly, his expression frantic and full of wolf as he showed the girl cradled against his side to the star in his palm; the star that shimmered and sparked a bit brighter before beginning to fade.  He shook both of them for a moment and then got a sly, grim look on his face.  He spoke again, holding the star toward the girl, and Stiles understood that this was Derek’s offer to keep Coralcifer from extinguishing; to give the star life and power by entering into a bond with him if it meant saving the girl.

 

As she watched, Derek fed the star into the girl’s mouth and rubbed her throat to coax her to swallow it down.   Still unconscious, the girl writhed and grimaced in pain, and then began to glow.  Her features shimmered and faded as she transmogrified into the same state as the fallen star.  The merged beings shrank down to a palm-sized ball of light that Derek then fed into his own mouth.  He swallowed it down and then roared his pain as the glow became a fire centered in his chest.  He hunched in on himself, shuddering, and then his cupped hands pulled away from his chest to hold the fluttering lump of his heart in his palms as Coralcifer flamed to life for the first time, looking up at her new master.

 

In that moment, the ring snapped and vanished.  Immediately, the bog and grasses around Stiles’ feet spread out and the black void appeared, cold wind rushing up around her.  It was time for her to leave, but she couldn’t, yet!  She couldn’t!  The clues were all there, how was she to…?

 

“Derek!” she shouted, her voice echoing.  “Coralcifer!”

 

Miraculously, they heard her.  Young Derek Hale turned, wide-eyed, with Coralcifer glowing orange-red in her palms.

 

“It’s me – Stiles!  I know how to help you now!” Stiles called out, sinking into the void.  The grasses had grown up tall and wild, obscuring her from their sight.  “Find me in the future!”

 

Because the clues had been there all along: Derek’s sparkling ring; a beacon ring that had fizzled to silence as soon as he’d put his arm around Stiles that May Day months ago; his truthful statement: “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”  He’d even apologized for his lateness, unaware that Stiles had not yet undertaken the journey that would make it all make sense to them both.

 

The void split wider open and Stiles fell in with a yelp, Deaton diving in after her, and then the void sealed shut behind them – leaving Derek and Coralcifer alone in the flower valley, their life together just beginning.

 

Stiles and Deaton fell through the same scud clouds and setting sun that Peter had illusioned days ago.  The cold wind whipped around Stiles, ruffling through her hair, snapping her skirt out behind her.  Deaton dropped past her, wheeze-barked, and began walking.  She copied his motion and they walked out of the fading light into the darkness of the void.

 

They walked, but Stiles had to slow her pace so she could wipe tears from her eyes.  The fear, worry, and exhaustion of the past few days was finally beginning to overwhelm her.  The new worry that she might even now be too late in finishing her deal with Coralcifer to break the bond tore at her heart.

 

Deaton wheeze-barked, clearly chivvying her to _hurry_.

 

“Yes, alright, you asthmatic old nag,” Stiles griped, wiping away more tears that floated way into the black.  “Forgive me my human frailties!”

 

Another wheeze-bark, but this time one of reassurance and encouragement.

 

They walked out of the void a few moments later, emerging back into the gully where the castle parts had crashed down.  The instant Stiles stepped foot into reality, fully clear of the door, the door sucked in on itself and vanished with a soft pop.

 

She noticed none of it.  She had eyes only for the massive black wolf lurking only a few feet away, dripping blood from the fur and feathers from the immense black wings that curled around its body.  It was still incongruous to her that a giant wolf had wings, but it didn’t stop her from going to him.

 

 “Derek,” she sighed.  Reaching up, she caught hold of the huge head and pulled it down, shivering at the blank quality of the blood-red eyes that stared unseeing.  Blood trickled down from wounds atop his head, but she ignored it as she pressed her forehead to the furry space between his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.  “Did I come too late?  I tried to hurry, once I knew what I had to do.  I’m so, so sorry for making you wait so long.”

 

She nuzzled, trying to give comfort – and maybe take a bit for herself – before pulling away to look into the wolf’s eyes.

 

“You’ve been strong and brave,” she said to the dazed wizard, “and I know you’re tired, but it’s almost over, Derek.  I need you to do one last thing: I need you to take me to Coralcifer, if you can.”

 

Derek didn’t answer with sound, didn’t even blink, but he shifted position.  He crouched down until his belly was upon the ground and lifted his wings.  He offered her a leg up and Stiles stepped lightly, climbing up to settle along the thick neck and beckoned to Deaton.  The dog took a running leap, flapped his massive ears, and settled with a plop onto Stiles’ lap.  Stiles curled her arms around Deaton to take hold of thick, black fur as Derek’s leg muscles bunched, and then he launched upward with a powerful jolt that made Stiles bite back a yelp.  Derek’s wings spread out and then flapped; strong strokes pulling all three of them up into the sky and away over the pre-dawn countryside.

 

 

*~*~*

 

 

Howl’s Moving Castle had been reduced to a simple wood platform perched atop a wheel-and-pulley system that the chicken legs used for locomotion.  The castle, such as it was, was picking its way along a ridge of mountain with steep slopes to either side – one side being the Wastes, the other side being the Preserves.  As the castle ambled along the dividing ridge, it left a trail of debris to mark its passage.  Turnip-Head stood guard while Jennifer and Boyd lay curled face down against the cold mountain air, with Jennifer still clutching the faded blue glow of Coralcifer and Derek’s heart.

 

Turnip-Head noticed the giant wolf-bird’s arrival first and bounced a little to gain Boyd’s attention.  Boyd lifted his head and gasped when he saw Stiles and Deaton perched atop the wolf’s back.

 

Jennifer, roused by his noises, rose up a little and clutched Derek’s heart greedily closer against her bosom even as she made a petulant sound.

 

Derek landed atop the platform with a delicacy belied by the massive weight of him.  As soon as Stiles and Deaton slid down from his back, he crumpled down onto the wooden floor and the wolf form melted away in a cascading shower of feathers and fur.  What was left was Derek, beaten and bruised and unconscious, but once more human.

 

Stiles dropped to her knees and turned the exhausted wizard over.  Derek wasn’t breathing; there was no pulse ( _there never had been,_ her mind supplied) and he was cool to the touch, but pliant and soft.

 

Boyd ran over to stand beside Stiles.  He stared down at his training master with a look of raw grief.  “He’s dead?”

 

Stiles rose to her feet, shaking her head.  “No, Boyd.  But we can’t leave him like this.”

 

She went over to Jennifer, who curved herself as a barrier around the glowing lump in her hands and looked away.  Stiles crouched down in front of her.

 

“Derek needs that back, now,” she said, her tone brooking no argument despite its gentleness.

 

“Needs _what?_   I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jennifer protested.  “Don’t look at me; I don’t have anything!”

 

“Jennifer, I’m going to say something to you that I rarely ever say to anyone,” Stiles murmured, and the ex-witch glanced at her fearfully.  Stiles looked at this woman who was afraid of the harm Stiles could do to her.  She realized it had barely been a week ago that she’d have reveled in the idea of the Witch of the Waste fearing her.

 

But that was then, and this was now.

 

“Jennifer,” she said, firm, polite, “I’m saying _please_ to you.  Please: give it back.”

 

Jennifer looked at Stiles fully, startled; her filmy gray eyes wide in her saggy, fat face. After a few moments, she sighed and looked at the younger woman with bittersweet sorrow.

 

“You _have_ changed,” Jennifer muttered.  “Not so long ago, you’d have been snapping a cutting bit of sarcasm to get what you wanted.”

 

“I can still do that,” Stiles agreed, “but it would get Derek nowhere but closer to true death – him and Coralcifer both.”

 

“If this happens, he’ll run away,” Jennifer warned.  “He’ll be free to go and do whatever he wants.  He won’t stay.”

 

“It’s not our place to try to cage him.”

 

Jennifer moaned.  “You’d rather lose him than keep him?”

 

“Lose him to life rather than to death, yes.”

 

She whimpered, looking down at the glowing lump in her hands.  Then, she sighed again and said, “Alright, then.  You’d better take good care of it.”

 

Stiles gave her a sad smile as she accepted Derek’s heart from Jennifer.  “Thank you.”

 

Ignoring the fact that she was holding a small-ish _human heart_ in her hands – a _still beating heart_ wrapped in _blue flames_ – Stiles went back over to where Derek lay as the others gathered around.

 

“Coralcifer,” she said to the fire in her palms.

 

Green-flame eyes appeared after a few moments.

 

“Stiles,” Coralcifer whispered, “hey.  Oh, I’m so tired.”

 

“What happens to you if I give Derek back his heart?”

 

“I don’t think I care anymore – but, if you do it, it’ll be okay.  You know what you have to do.”  A glimmer of red-orange formed a smile in the flames.  “Besides, you threw water on me, and Derek and I both survived that.”

 

“Then, I guess I’d better get to it,” Stiles agreed.  She looked at the heart in her hands and felt it thump.  “It’s so… _alive_.  This is spectacularly gross.”

 

Coralcifer chuckled breathlessly.  “That’s our Stiles.”

 

Stiles grinned and then focused intently on the heart she held and prayed like she never had before.

 

“Please,” she said, “to whatever guides us in this, to whatever makes us this way: let Derek take back his heart.  Let Coralcifer be free, let Derek be free, let the girl free… let them all _live_.”

 

With that, she pressed the flaming heart to Derek’s chest over the space where a human heart was supposed to rest.  A few seconds passed, and then the heart and the flames melted through Derek’s shirt and torso to disappear into his chest.

 

Stiles held still, hoping, _hoping_ —and then, gasped as sparkling, blue-white light that threw off multi-colored shimmers emerged from Derek’s chest and floated up to fly around them.

 

“Look!” cried Coralcifer’s voice.  “Look at this!  Look at _me!_   I’m _alive!_   I’m free, I’m free!”

 

“ _Cora!_ ” Boyd shouted, straining a hand up toward the newly freed star.

 

She ignored him and flew away across the sky, crying out, “I’m alive, I’m alive!”

 

Boyd’s hand dropped down and he stared after her, silent and hurt.

 

Derek groaned and twitched on the floor.  Everyone focused on him again, Boyd tilting an ear toward his training master.

 

“I can hear his heartbeat.  And look – he moved,” Boyd murmured.  “See?”

 

And that was when the remains of Howl’s Moving Castle fell apart beneath them.

 

“It can’t stand without Coralcifer!” Boyd shouted.  He hung onto Stiles and Jennifer while Stiles clutched Derek and Deaton close.

 

The platform popped off the inert legs and went sliding like a surfboard down the Preserves side of the dividing ridge.

 

Everyone screamed as the wooden platform sped fast-fast-fast down the hill, heading for a rock outcropping.  They would smash into that, first, and then bounce off and plummet to the shallow stream in a gully far, far below.

 

Turnip-Head had other ideas.

 

Leaping ahead of the platform, he tried to dig her pole into the ground and halt the platform’s descent.  Instead, the wooden pole shredded into splinters as it tore a furrow down the slope, pushed along by the platform.

 

Turnip-Head’s plan _did_ work, though.  With just enough resistance, the platform _did_ hit the rock outcropping.  Instead of shattering and launching everyone to their deaths, the stub of Turnip-Head’s wooden pole gave the platform a tipping point that knocked it backwards and wedged it horizontally between two boulders, keeping everyone safe if shaken up.

 

Everyone except Turnip-Head, that was.

 

Hauling herself upright with a groan, Stiles shook her head to clear it.  Then, with a sorrowful sound, she gathered up the limp, broken wreck of a scarecrow.

 

“Ah, God, Turnip-Head,” she murmured.  “I’m… I’ll get you a new pole; I’ll fix you right up!  Turnip-Head?”

 

The scarecrow remained inert.

 

Stiles’ breath caught.  “ _Turnip-Head?_ ”

 

Nothing.

 

Tears stinging her eyes, she cradled the broken scarecrow to her chest while Boyd made a broken sound of grief.

 

“You did good, Turnip-Head,” Stiles muttered, her voice thick with emotion.  “You saved us all.  Thank you.”

 

With that, she kissed Turnip-Head’s cheek in a gesture of farewell.

 

She fell back with a startled shout as the scarecrow began to ripple and shudder and shake.  It flew up out of her arms; spun around and around, and Stiles instinctively covered Derek’s limp body as, to her shock, a _woman_ suddenly appeared where the scarecrow had been.

 

She was petite and blonde and beautiful; a sunny smile on her face and a blush to match the pink silk of her dress.

 

“Oregon’s Crown Princess?!” Stiles bellowed, shocked and out-of-sorts.

 

She dipped a curtsey to Stiles.  “ _Thank you_ , Stiles!  Yes – I’m the missing Crown Princess.  My name is Heather.  How do you feel about becoming a Royal Consort?”

 

Stiles gaped most unattractively.

 

“I think that ship’s sailed, Highness,” Boyd teased.  “Hi; I’m Boyd.”

 

Heather smirked at him.  “I know.  Stiles…?”

 

Stiles gestured at her unintelligibly.  “ _How?!_ ”

 

Heather shook her head.  “I don’t know!  I was minding my own business, out shopping one day, and suddenly I was a scarecrow – and dressed in a tatty gentleman’s suit to further disguise me!  I’d heard about the Great Wizard Howl, so I made my way to California to find him.”

 

“And so you did!  Fat lot of good it did you,” Stiles retorted with a grin.  She patted Derek’s chest.  “Actually… it probably did.  He didn’t actually remove our curses, but by coming to him, we set ourselves into the path of _getting_ them taken off.”

 

“Too right,” Jennifer agreed with a husky chortle.  “I recognize the spell laid on you: a kiss from your true love breaks it.”

 

“Hooray for living in a land run by fairy tale tropes,” Stiles grumbled.

 

Everyone scowled at her, but she ignored them.

 

“But, yes, you’re right, Madame Jennifer,” Heather said after a few moments.  “If it weren’t for Stiles, I’d still be a broken old scarecrow.”

 

Stiles went hot pink with a blush and then grumbled, “Of course you recognize the spell, Jennifer!  You probably put it on her!”

 

Jennifer snorted.  She paused and gave Heather a considering look.  “She’s not my usual type, but there is something to be said for beautiful little blondes.”

 

“Preach, Reverend,” Stiles sighed, amused and tired all at once.

 

Heather smiled.  “So does this mean—?”

 

“Nnnngggh… what’s going on?”

 

Stiles gasped and quickly turned to focus her attention on Derek, who was finally waking up.

 

Derek opened his eyes and looked around with a wince.  “What am I doing _here?_ ”

 

“Long story involving magical warfare, curses, and true love kisses,” Stiles explained carelessly.  “How do you feel?”

 

Derek propped himself up on his elbows, and then groaned.  “Terrible!  Like there’s a weight on my chest!”

 

“Yeah, well, no one ever said having a heart wasn’t a _heavy_ burden.”

 

He scowled at her.  “That was horrible, Stiles.  I mean: _horrible_ ; completely cheesy and trite.”

 

Stiles _laughed_.

 

When she calmed down again, she found Derek staring at her with a look of amazement and tenderness that was fully realized.

 

“I love seeing you smile,” Derek muttered.  “Love hearing you _laugh!_   It’s the best sound in the world.  I wanted to kiss you the first time I heard it when we met on May Day.  And just _look_ at you: that sweet mouth and that smug face… and wow!  Those gorgeous brown eyes… and your _hair_ , Stiles, _God_ – it looks like moonlight!”

 

Stiles laughed again and threw caution to the wind as she threw herself at Derek.

 

He oofed playfully, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled him down, rolling her beneath him and claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss.

 

Boyd watched with a delighted smile – until Jennifer’s hand clamped over his eyes and hauled him back against her to give the two new lovers some privacy.  Jennifer looked up to see Heather frowning sadly.

 

“The spell isn’t a soulmate match,” Jennifer murmured.  “ _Your_ true love is not _her_ true love – as I think you can see.”

 

Heather sighed.  “Yes.  I’d hoped… but… they look happy.”

 

Boyd wriggled free of Jennifer’s grip, looked at the two lovers, and then turned his back on them with a grin.  “I’ve never seen Master Derek look like that, ever.  He looks… complete.”

 

Heather sighed again.

 

“There will be other people to love, dear,” Jennifer said kindly.  “Take it from me.  Now, how about we get you home so you can tell your king to call off this dumb war?”

 

“I’m afraid the war may just be getting started once I get home,” Heather replied, shaking her head.  “Father will want revenge on whoever cursed me.”

 

“It – mmmm!  It was… mmm, Stiles!  Stiles…” Derek murmured, kissing even as he tried to speak.  Finally, he forced his mouth away from hers and turned to face them all, disheveled.  “It was Peter, I’m certain of it.  He and Finstock; they wanted this war to happen for their own reasons.”

 

“Can you prove it?” Heather demanded to know.

 

Derek smirked at her.  “Easily.  With my heart back, my power is my own again – and I have always been very strong.  Couple that with being an Alpha, and… well.”

 

A wicked grin spread across her face.   “Well, then.”

 

“Yes, good, excellent,” Stiles muttered, and pulled Derek back into a kiss.

 

Derek didn’t protest a bit.

 

They were still kissing when Boyd suddenly shouted, “ _Cora!_ ”

 

Derek broke the kiss with a gasp, looked up, and then scrambled up onto his feet and pulled Stiles up with him.

 

The shimmery, sparking star fell down out of the sky in a controlled glide straight toward Stiles.  She held up her hands and the beautiful star settled into the perch provided before turning into a ball of flame with green eyes and a blue smile.

 

“Cora?” Derek asked, peering over one of Stiles’ shoulders while Boyd crowded against the other one.

 

“She’s still here,” the fire-star replied.  “With Stiles’ help, we can separate.  You can have your sister back.”

 

“You… you merged with Derek’s sister out in the valley that night,” Stiles said, the clues coming together.  “The bargain was that you could live if you helped Cora?”

 

“You finally see it,” the fire-star burbled.  “Hi; I’m Calcifer.  Cora’s my other half.”

 

“ _Coralcifer_ ,” Stiles muttered, laughing a little.  “I get it, now.”

 

“Hunters had tracked Cora when she fled the fire,” Derek explained.  “She was badly hurt, dying… she went to a wizard who gave her a spell to get to me in a hurry.  She showed up just as the stars were falling.  I’d been planning to catch one anyway; I’d read about how I could form a bond with one and increase my power.  But then Cora showed up and I had to save her, so I bargained that Calcifer could have my heart to keep himself alive if he saved Cora.”

 

“The only way to do it was to make her a part of me,” Calcifer agreed.  “I nearly snuffed out just doing that, but Derek gave me his heart in time.  And so here we are.  I can separate us and give you Cora back – and still live – if Stiles talks us through it.”

 

Boyd made an urgent noise and gripped Stiles’ shoulder hard enough to make her gasp and squirm.  He relented at the pointed look from Derek.

 

“Do I need to do anything specific?” she asked.

 

“Just want it bad enough.  Believe it’ll happen, and it’ll happen,” Calcifer instructed.  “Remember: your spark is nearly as strong as mine.”

 

She nodded.  “Then, I think you should do it.  You should separate, Calcifer and Cora.  Cora, come back to us: healthy and alive and grown the way you should be by now.  Come back to your family and let Calcifer be free to live and be wherever he wants!”

 

Stiles spoke with every bit of her heart, believing that this should happen.  The girl and the star had been merged long enough.  It was time for everyone to have a new start!

 

Calcifer floated up from her hands and moved back to a corner of the wooden platform.  The shimmering light spread and stretched until a humanoid form took shape.  Details filled in and long hair began streaming in the highland breeze rushing over them all.  A face formed with a smile already coming in.  Green eyes appeared and settled; no longer made of flame but green all the same.  The body became dense and opaque, a green dress wreathing the figure, and with a final sparkle of color and light, a young woman about Boyd’s age stood on the platform.  She had the Hale eyes, mouth, and chin, and was smiling even as Calcifer’s light pulled free of her to hover beside her.

 

Derek was the first to reach his sister.  He caught her up in a strong hug and they clung to each other for several long moments.  Then, dotting a kiss to her forehead, he grinned and tossed her to Boyd.

 

“Derek!” she shrieked.  “You _ass!_   Don’t—“

 

She went silent as Boyd’s arms closed around her.  With a look of wonder and a hesitant smile, she reached up to touch his face.

 

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” she confessed.  “I thought… I know that you took that Erica girl out a few times…”

 

Boyd shook his head.  “Erica is a lovely girl; wonderful and sassy.  But she explained that she’s having a lot of fun being beautiful and carefree after so many years of being a boring little mouse.  She isn’t ready to settle down.  That was fine with me because I told her, honestly, that the soul I wanted to settle with myself just wasn’t ready at the time.  Erica’s a friend, Cora, and she always will be – but she isn’t you.”

 

“And it’s me you want?” she challenged.

 

“Absolutely I want you,” he answered, “if you’d care to have me?  You’ve been stuck with Calcifer so long… maybe you want to be carefree, too?”

 

Cora laughed.  “I want to _travel_ , but I’d rather not go at all if I can’t go with you.”

 

“You really want me?  I’m just an apprentice wizard and a beta ‘wolf.”

 

“I’m a newly corporeal girl without a job or money or anything, and I’m a beta ‘wolf, too.”

 

Boyd grinned.  “So we can make something of ourselves together?”

 

Cora grinned back.  “Don’t see why not.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve waited a very long time to be kissed.”

 

Derek glanced over from where he’d been talking to Calcifer, sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned his back on his apprentice and his sister as they tangled together for a loving kiss.

 

Stiles snickered and then went to fit herself against her lover, relishing the heat rising from him as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

 

“So,” she prompted, “what happens now?”

 

“Now that’s he’s a free sentient being, Calcifer has decided he wants to stay with us,” Derek said, grinning at the fire-star floating above the palm of his left hand.

 

“On the condition that I can come and go as I please,” Calcifer added.  “Besides, Peter isn’t going to go quietly and you’ll need all the help you can get to take him down – or at least beat him into submission.”

 

Stiles winced.  “That’s a thing that needs to happen?”

 

“He’s too dangerous to be left running loose,” Derek muttered.  “Besides, he owes Princess Heather for what he did to her.”

 

“Damn right he does,” Heather grumbled.

 

“And what about taking my powers from me?” Jennifer demanded.

 

“We’re okay with that,” Derek and Calcifer both said, and she scowled.

 

“Don’t,” Derek added when she looked about to argue.  “Considering everything you’ve done for the last fifty or so years, you got off light in the punishment department.”

 

Jennifer rolled her eyes.

 

“Besides,” Derek said, “you’ll still have a place with us.  I won’t kick a helpless old woman out to fend for herself.”

 

Jennifer snorted.  “Oh, that I already knew.  You let _Grandma Stiles_ stay, after all.”

 

“It wasn’t just about that.  I’ve been looking for her since that night in the valley.”  Derek smiled at Stiles.  “You wouldn’t believe how confused I was when the beacon ring led me to you in that alley.  I’d heard a strong young voice, I’d seen a froth of white hair… and instead, there’s this mousy girl with brown hair!”

 

“I was _not_ mousy!” Stiles snapped, giving him a pinch on his side.

 

He snorted.  “You were mousy – at least for a few moments.  Then, you got sassy and I loved it.”  He turned to face her; kissed her tenderly.  “I loved you – as best as I could without a heart.”

 

Calcifer made an amused sound.  “I’d never have known he _didn’t_ have a heart if I hadn’t been holding it.  I’d never felt emotions that strong out of you before.”

 

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Cora groaned as she and Boyd came over to join them.  “That was _so gross_ getting to feel my brother’s feelings and desires.”

 

“Des—but I was _old_ ,” Stiles said, aghast.

 

“You had no idea that you changed back to a youthful form in your sleep, or when you weren’t focusing on yourself, did you?” Cora teased.  “Calcifer and I could always see your true form, but Boyd and Derek only go the occasional glimpse of you.”

 

Derek nodded.  “I tried to take the curse off a few times, but it wouldn’t budge at all.  I finally figured you’d dump the curse when you got tired of pretending to be an old woman.”

 

“But I wasn’t!  I was—“

 

Jennifer sighed loudly.  “The curse made you manifest all the worst things you believed about yourself – and, since you have a spark of power that runs on the strength of your belief, there was no way anyone was getting you out of that old woman persona short of death.”

 

Stiles winced.  “Okay, so… is the curse lifted, now?”

 

“It was broken the moment you stopped giving a damn about what others thought of you and just got on with things.  The only reason you stayed old was because of your own self-doubts and limitations.  You’re really quite self-centered, you know.”

 

“Hey!  At least I’m not—“

 

Derek kissed Stiles again and grinned at the look on her face when he pulled back.  “Sorry for interrupting.  I just want to do that to you all the time.”

 

“To shut me up?”

 

“No; because I want to kiss you.”

 

“Oh.  Well, in that case…”

 

Derek laughed and took the hint, kissing Stiles again and again and again.

 

 

*~*~*~*

 

_Epilogue_

 

 

 

Derek and Stiles spent a week together, reveling in their love for each other, and then went before a Justice of the Peace for a hasty wedding with their small pack as witnesses.  Feelings of camaraderie and warmth abounded, but it was done in a decided hurry and, starting out their married life, Derek and Stiles realized they had nowhere to live. 

 

With the old castle in ruins, Derek and his pack needed to go _somewhere_ so Stiles decided they should take Allison up on her invitation to come to the Inn.  Stiles promised her husband it would be merely temporary; that she loved her family, but she wanted a life with him.  Mollified, Derek agreed and they all went to the Inn.

 

Allison, still quite pregnant, took one look at the lot of them on her doorstep and promptly pitched a fit even as she hugged Stiles so hard the older woman squeaked.

 

“Oh, by the way,” Stiles said to her sister when the hugging finally stopped, “do you recall how you said I had to find someone to put up with me?”

 

She wiggled the fingers of her left hand, showing off her own gold wedding band.

 

Allison squeaked and nodded, wide-eyed.

 

“Remember how you’d said you were thinking about getting Wizard Howl to help me find a lover?”

 

“Yes…?”

 

Stiles grinned, smug and wicked, and pulled Derek up against her side.  “Don’t bother: he helped me personally.  Allow me to introduce to you Derek Hale – also known as the Great Wizard Howl.”

 

Allison looked at their matching rings, took in the mortified look on Derek’s face and the smirk on Stiles’ face, and let out a yowl that set dogs off barking. 

 

Drawn by the noise, Aleksander Stilinski came to investigate the hullabaloo.  He gawped at his eldest daughter and then burst into tears, which made Stiles cry, which did Derek’s already high-strung nerves in right and proper.

 

So, when Stiles finally introduced her husband to her father and vice-versa, neither man was really starting out on an even keel.

 

Aleksander Stilinski gave them both a squinty-eyed glare and finally demanded of his eldest daughter, “You couldn’t have waited long enough to invite me to the wedding?!”

 

Stiles blushed bright red, as did Derek, and then she put her hand on her low belly and said, “Well… um.  I maybe sort of took a page out of Allison’s book, so to speak?”

 

Fortunately, having been warned of Aleksander’s heart condition, Derek had a restorative potion on hand when the older man had heart palpitations at the news.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Stilinski snapped when he’d recovered.  “Just… really?”  He gave Stiles a small smile.  “Another grandchild?”

 

Stiles grinned and nodded.  “Yes.  We’re thinking Morgan if it’s a boy and Claudia if it’s a girl.”

 

Aleksander blinked tears from his eyes and nodded.  “Sounds good.”  His attitude changed, then, and he gave Derek a strong look.  “How about you and me have a talk, young man, while Stiles excuses herself?”

 

“Excuse _you_ ,” Stiles snapped.  “Why should I—?”

 

“It’s a Dad-thing,” Derek interrupted, blushing.  “My dad did it to Laura’s boyfriends.”

 

Stiles rolled her eyes.  “Let me guess: if we have a daughter, you’ll do it, too?”

 

Derek gave her a helpless, silly grin.  “I’ll do it no matter what we have.”

 

“Oh, my _God_ , you’re impossible!”

 

“But you love me anyway.”

 

She gave him a helpless, silly grin right back.  “You know I do.”

 

Aleksander pointedly cleared his throat and Stiles left the two of them to talk after admonishing her father to not widow her before the kid was born.

 

“But after is alright?”

 

“No!”

 

By the end of the day, after introductions had been made all around and the pack had officially moved into the Inn, Derek and Stiles were ensconced in a couples’ suite in the Inn.  They both needed comfort from the emotional storm of: introducing Derek to Stiles’ family, telling them all about their adventures, and oh by the way – werewolves.

 

“Your dad hates me,” Derek groaned, hiding his head under his pillow as they curled up in bed together.  “I mean: I think _all_ of your family hates me but your dad was the _fourth_ person to threaten me on your behalf – and Isaac isn’t even related to you!”

 

“I know, but I _am_ the one who called in the anonymous tip that got his monster of a father taken away so he’d stop being abused.”

 

Derek made a frustrated noise.  “And that was very decent of you, Stiles, but your _dad_.  Did you hear _where_ he threatened to stick his gun _before_ pulling the trigger if I ever hurt you?”

 

“No – the two of you ever so high-handedly kicked me out, remember?  But I can guess what was said.  Dad’s always been creative,” Stiles muttered.  “Where do you think Allison got it from?”

 

Derek shuddered and moaned.  “I’m going to have nightmares about wolfsbane-laced arrows – I just know it.  She was very precise in detailing what she’d do to me if I made you unhappy.  But what’s up with Scott?  I said hi, said we’re brothers now, he said I’m not any brother of his, and then vaguely threatened me if I hurt his sister-in-law!”

 

She smirked and stroked Derek’s back.  “I won’t let them hurt you, honeymuffin.  As for Scott, he’s just following his wife’s lead.  He’s been Allison’s devoted puppy since the day they met.  I’m sure he’ll come around once she does.  But I think Dad, at least, likes you well enough for having kept me safe and helping me give him more grandkids.”

 

Derek pulled his head from beneath the pillow and turned to grin at her.  “Well, it wasn’t for _him_ I did all those things.”

 

Stiles laughed.  “I know.  Now, why don’t you and I make each other feel better?”

 

He grinned and pulled her to him.  “Sounds like a plan.”

 

It wasn’t the only plan they had.  Having gotten their honeymoon done before the wedding because of the work they still had left to do, they were pronounced husband and wife, set up residence at the Inn, and then set about toppling the corrupt Californian government.

 

As it turned out, Peter and Finstock were indeed behind the war starting up.  Finstock was a devoted lacrosse enthusiast and he’d gotten fed up to the back teeth with Oregon’s consistent wins against California on the international lacrosse fields.  Peter had thought to use the conflict to goad Derek into submitting himself to his authority and so he’d cursed Princess Heather and left enough clues for Oregon to call California out in war.  When the treachery was discovered and presented to the People’s Court and all nobles and ministers, Finstock was stripped of his title and tossed into prison. 

 

As for Peter… well.

 

The battle that raged between Derek’s pack and Peter was ferocious.  Peter held his own against the combined strength of Derek, Boyd, Cora, and Calcifer.  Derek _tried_ to get his uncle to see reason, to submit, but Peter refused.  He had always believed he should be the Alpha and the strongest wizard, and he wasn’t about to go back to being a beta any which way.

 

Derek finally called in Stiles, who’d been held in reserve.  Once again, with her spark augmenting him – and the rest of the pack – Derek defeated Peter once and for all.  He was stripped of his magic and a charmed collar was latched around his neck that depressed his werewolf abilities.

 

It might have ended there if not for Lydia’s arrival at the battlefield in the Preserves.  She fire-bombed him; scorched him entirely to ash and mixed the ashes with wolfsbane and then sealed the ashes in a jar of salt that was then buried in a warded pit.

 

The moment Peter’s ashes were buried under warded dirt, Deaton the dog vanished and became Deaton the man.

 

“Took you long enough!” he snapped at Lydia.  “I left you how many clues…!”

 

Derek, Stiles, and the others couldn’t do much else but gape at the tall, dark-skinned bald man berating the petite young woman.

 

“I did the best I could!” Lydia shouted back.  “Peter was an evil, lecherous creep, but he wasn’t _stupid!_   The curse is lifted, you’re back in your proper form, and you can go back to being the friendly neighborhood veterinarian who dabbles in magic on the side!”

 

Deaton rolled his eyes and turned to go, pausing to glare at Derek.  “You and I need to talk.  I have things and words of your parents’ that need to be passed on to you.”

 

Derek nodded, mute with surprise, and watched him disappear into the tree line.

 

“You have _no idea_ ,” Lydia snapped at Stiles when she found her sister gaping at her while gesturing at the burial pit.  “Peter really was a lecherous creep _and_ he had his fingers in too many pies.  Daddy, you, Allison… _everyone_ was in danger from him and I’m not about to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for his next bit of mischief!”

 

“Fair deal,” Stiles agreed, wondering when her younger sister got so _scary_.

 

“But why are you so invested in this?” asked Boyd, confused.

 

Lydia sighed and scraped her tousled strawberry-blonde hair away from her face.  “I needed to get close to Peter anyway after he attacked and cursed Deaton.  Deaton was the wizard that lived in and protected Beacon Hills, after all, and he specifically asked for my help.  And then Blake went after my sister, which actually gave me the perfect opening.  I had to make a deal with him to get the Witch of the Waste taken care of.  She _attacked my sister_ – do you really think I was just going to let that _slide?_ ”

 

Stiles made a noise of indignation.  “But the note you sent back when I asked for help…!”

 

“The Witch was monitoring your every move in the hopes it would lead her to the Wizard Howl!  I wasn’t about to make myself vulnerable to her, so _of course_ I made it seem like I didn’t care!  She was responsible, by the way, for mucking with the mail and making sure your letters never got to the family.  But speaking of family: I’m actually quite hurt, Stiles, that you believed I would ever turn my back on you for _real_.”

 

Stiles grimaced.  “Yeah, well…”

 

Lydia snorted.  She glanced at Derek, who stood protectively beside her sister, and smirked.  “I see you haven’t done too badly for yourself.  Finally stopped believing that garbage about being the eldest and not good enough?”

 

“There’s been a change of heart all around,” Stiles agreed with a grin.

 

Derek and his pack gave a collective groan and rolled their eyes.  Stiles sulked until Derek kissed her, which always brightened her spirits.

 

Lydia rolled her own eyes.  “You’re going to be disgustingly romantic now, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles retorted, “and if you have a problem with it, then don’t watch!”

 

“I don’t _intend_ to.  I have my own romance going on.”

 

Stiles blinked.  “You _what?_ ”

 

“Remember Jackson Whittemore?”

 

“I try not to.”

 

“Yes, well, when the bombs began falling, he fought to get to me.  The library is very well protected, but still – he was very worried about me and, as it turns out, he’s in love with me.”  Lydia’s cheeks pinked up.  “And it’s possible I love him just as much… so there.”

 

“I think you can do better than that ass.”

 

“I think I don’t care what you think.  It’s my life to live and my love to give.”

 

Stiles sighed, nodded, and then dragged Lydia through a portal Derek created so they could all go back to their base camp at the Beacon Hills Inn.

 

With Peter taken care of and Finstock out of the way, things in California settled down enough to let the kingdom begin putting itself to rights.  A People’s Vote was held and one of the noble families was elevated to the rank of royalty and a new sovereign was chosen.

 

Princess Heather of Oregon ended up falling truly in love with and marrying the daughter from the new Californian royal family.  Danielle fell in love right back and, with her brother as the new Crown Prince, saw no problem in taking Heather’s family name and marrying into the Oregon kingdom.  In doing so, the two young women strengthened the war-torn ties between the two realms, but that was a bonus as far as they were concerned; utterly wrapped up in their love for each other.

 

Calcifer, of course, remained with Derek and his family.  Being freed, he’d become not a fire demon but a spirit; a star spirit, with all of his own power and abilities and sustainability.  He liked his friends and wizard, so he stayed put and voluntarily powered the new Moving Castle that he and Derek created together.  This one looked very much like the old one on the outside except that it was meant to _fly_ most of the time.  The inside was huge, spacious, with a dozen bedrooms for permanent residents, residents yet-to-be, and guests.  More bathrooms were added on, a library, a separate kitchen, a basement with magically powered washing tubs, balconies a-plenty, and an outdoor covered hearth for Calcifer so he could actually see what was going on around him for those days when he felt like staying home. 

 

Jennifer, who hadn’t been kicked out just as Derek had promised, spent most of her days by the fire in a sturdy chair with a blanket on her lap and reading to pass her time. 

 

Boyd – much happier in his own right, thrilled at having Cora truly with him, and boosted by Derek’s own elevated health and happiness – progressed much faster in his studies.  Without worries and unhappiness holding him back, he excelled and thrived under Derek’s tutelage.  Just before he was due to gain his own mastery as a wizard, he asked Cora to be his wife.  She accepted readily and threatened her brother with utter mayhem if he tried to argue about it.  Derek called her an idiot, gave them his blessing, and reminded them they were pack so they always had a place with him in the Moving Castle if they wanted it.

 

Stiles, with her magical abilities now not-so-dormant, picked up a few spells here and there, but her true talent still lay in talking life and sense into things which she used to help her husband, the Great Wizard Howl (as he still chose to bill himself to the public).  Her favorite thing to do, though, was kiss Derek whenever and wherever she could.  Derek was in complete agreement with Stiles’ new hobby.  He especially seemed to like it when she kissed him as they relaxed on the bowsprit of the flying castle while they soared among the clouds.

 

After all that, considering they did live in a land of fairy tale tropes, Derek and Stiles chose to live Happily Ever After – even if they did tease and yell at each other a lot, before and after Morgan was born.

 

But they loved with two, whole, healthy hearts and that was all they needed.

 

 

 

 

The End


End file.
